


Business is Booming

by copernicusjones



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: (Aldo/Donny and Landstrom), (Omar/Uti Archie/Bridget and Fredrick/Shosanna), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Retail, Canon Jewish Character, Derogatory Language, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Male Friendship, POV Alternating, Past Hans/Bridget, Past Other Ship (It's a surprise), Recreational Drug Use, Stuffed Toys, Wicki's not in this I'm sorry!, all ships are endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: Smithson Utivich is more than happy with his job at Fluff-a-Friend, but a series of events pits Smitty and his fellow mall employees against the scheming management of the Fenech Mall's most successful tenant: the upscale department store, Landstrom's.[on hiatus until April 10th!]
Relationships: Aldo Raine & Smithson Utivich, Bridget von Hammersmark/Archie Hicox, Dieter Hellstrom/Hans Landa, Donny Donowitz/Aldo Raine, Hugo Stiglitz & Smithson Utivich, Omar Ulmer/Smithson Utivich, Shosanna Dreyfus/Fredrick Zoller
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Utivich

**Author's Note:**

> **Contains vague spoilers:** I feel it important to state up front that while the Jewish characters in this fic remain Jewish (because duh?), for the sake of the tone of the fic, Landa and Hellstrom are not "Nazis" in its textbook definition; they are just irredeemably shitty and will remain as such throughout the fic. Will I (attempt to) write them as three-dimensional? Yes. Will there be any kind of redemption? **No.**  
>  This fic isn't meant to be that deep, and is a nice break from the actual content/conflict of the movie/world itself, but I also don't want to diminish how truly wretched they are. If any part of this is not your bag... well, you were warned.
> 
> Fredrick, however, will get some of the growth that he doesn't in canon (that I personally believe he was capable of, but y'know, he died and stuff)—and while he's only a side character in this fic, if you're not a fan of him, you're probably not going to enjoy his role in the plot.

While most people couldn't wait for Friday to roll around, Smithson Utivich lived for Tuesdays.

Tuesdays were Mall Employee Discount Night at the Fenech Mall's movie theatre, the Gammaplex. And every Tuesday night for the past three months, Smitty had taken advantage of the promotion, joining his usual group of co-workers and escaping for a couple hours of laughter and camaraderie before heading back to the grind the next day, at his job as a sales lead at the toy store Fluff-a-Friend.

Smitty scrolled absentmindedly through his social media feed and took another sip of his white mocha. This was another perk of Tuesday nights; one of the friends he would wait for, Archie Hicox, was the owner of the mall's busiest coffee shop, Archbucks. Archie had his closing duties to attend to, but he'd always make Smitty any drink he wanted and let him chill in the small dining area of the closed shop while they waited for the rest of the group, mall security captain Aldo Raine and his second-in-command, Donny Donowitz, to show up.

Smitty's phone pinged. A text from Aldo.

_[Be there in 5. Bringin a 3rd]_

Everyone who worked at the mall (well, almost everyone) loved Aldo and Donny, so it wasn't too odd that they'd find someone to come along with them, but Smitty found the short notice kinda strange. Normally they were so busy that it was tough to imagine them having time to stop and chit-chat with anyone, bring up the subject of their weekly movie night.

Weird? A little. But when Smitty saw Aldo and Donny approaching the gated-off store, weirdness was no longer an issue. The third person joining them made Smitty light up with a huge grin and bolt up from his chair, rushing over to greet all of them and drag open the gate.

“Hugo! Hey, man!”

“Geez, what a welcome. What the hell are we?” Donny complained to Aldo in his thick accent. “Chopped liver?”

Hugo Stiglitz, ever-stoic, returned Smitty's smile with a crooked twitch of his lips. A smile, in his own right.

Hugo was one of Smitty's favorite customers—nah, screw it, his _favorite_ , and had become a good friend, too. It'd taken a while for Smitty to chip down Hugo's reserved exterior, but eventually he'd discovered that Hugo's purchases were part of his monthly visits to the local children's hospital, where he donated toys to the terminal patients. This was the sort of thing that made Smitty believe there really was good in people, which was sometimes a difficult task given some of the past interactions he'd had with customers (parents, mostly; he could never begrudge the kids).

The lobby lights went out, and Archie emerged from the back room, stylish shoulder bag in tow. “Alright, boys, let's head out.” He paused upon seeing Hugo's presence, wagging a finger as he tried to put a name to the face—and to the order. “Ah, wait, it's... medium skim cappuccino...” Then he placed it. “Aha! Hugo, right?”

Hugo nodded.

“Not to be rude, friend Hugo,” Archie said as the group began their walk to the Gammaplex, “but we weren't expecting your company. Although, the more the merrier, I say.”

Aldo led the way, even though they all knew where the theatre was. Without turning around, he told them, “Let's just say ol' Hugo here's had another rough day at work and could use somethin' like this to blow off some steam.”

Smitty could have guessed as much, considering Hugo had visited him at Fluff-a-Friend for the fourth day in a row. Hugo would come by either on his breaks or when he'd get done with work, and it was Smitty's highlight of the day. But it usually meant, too, that Hugo had had another stressful day at Landstrom's, the sprawling department store that was the cornerstone of the mall.

“Rough...” Hugo repeated. “That's putting it lightly.”

Donny was beside Aldo, and threw a look back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I've been tellin' you to quit, already! You could come work security, with us. You'd be perfect.”

Smitty felt Hugo tense up beside him.

“It ain't that easy, Donny,” Aldo said. “I'd have trouble walkin' away from that kinda money no matter what sorta assholes were runnin' the show. 'Sides, maybe he don't wanna work 'longside you, ever think of that?”

Hugo made a grunting noise, and Smitty couldn't tell if he agreed or not.

But he couldn't argue with Aldo's point, either. Landstrom's paid well, especially if you were also commissioned, and from what Hugo had told him, the vast majority of customers were gracious and kind. It was a combination of the sales-obsessed owner and his snide, insensitive assistant that was Hugo's driving incentive to up and leave.

The topic shifted to Archie talking up the movie they were about to see, _Operation Dyn-O-Mite_ , which he was looking forward to posting about on his film critiquing blog. All Donny seemed to care about was that there was allegedly one tremendous fight scene that'd been met with rave reviews, while Aldo was more interested in the action sequences. As for Smitty, he liked the idea of being able to treat himself to something this enjoyable for less than ten dollars.

Hugo didn't have anything to add, but Smitty didn't suppose the movie's genre mattered too much given the sort of day Hugo had been experiencing over and over again. Smitty wished he could actually offer Hugo some advice, lend some kind of real support that wasn't standing around, stuffing a bear like any stooge could do—Hugo had just chosen him to be that stooge, was all. But who was Smitty—who was _anybody—_ when it came to facing off against the woes of retail life, especially upper management?

Nobody. But at least they were a bunch of nobodies who, as patchwork and unlikely as it was, all had each other.

* * *

The mall was a ginormous, three-story square, with the Gammaplex anchoring one of its corners. Other than Landstrom's, it was the only tenant taking up more than one story. Its owner was a pretty blonde lady a few years younger than Smitty. Her name was Shosanna Dreyfus, and she took care of operating nearly every aspect of the cinema, from taking tickets, to ushering, to cleaning, to changing out the posters and promotional displays. The only exceptions to her total reign were the projectionist's booth and the concessions stand.

Smitty and his motley crew weren't the only mall employees attending tonight; the Gammaplex had steadily been attracting more and more exhausted workers as the weeks went by. With back-to-school in the rear view mirror and the holidays fast approaching, seasonal employees were being added—and worked to the bone just as hard as full-timers.

Donny and Aldo came away from concessions, arms full of popcorn bags and soda cups, and passed them out as they entered the theater.

Or, they tried to. The bag of popcorn meant for Archie nearly fell to the floor, as he was looking everywhere around the theater except right in front of him. Luckily he grabbed the bag just as Aldo released it.

“Ya know, typically a man don't get butterfingers until _after_ he's gone through his popcorn,” he chided as the group found an empty row two-thirds down.

“I beg your pardon?” Archie took the aisle seat, next to Smitty. Hugo was on Smitty's other side, then a seat between (so's Hugo and Aldo had room to stretch their legs), then Aldo and Donny.

“Said you're a bit distracted there, Arch,” Aldo replied.

“I'm not sure I take your meaning,” Archie said, a touch indignant.

Smitty stifled a laugh. He knew _exactly_ why Archie was distracted.

“Take this meanin', then,” Donny leaned across Aldo, grinning. “You're lookin' all around for von Hammersmaaaaark,” he drawled out her name in a mocking lovey-dovey tone. Bridget von Hammersmark operated a make-up kiosk not too far from Fluff-a-Friend, and was another regular at Archbucks.

As if on cue, Bridget entered the theatre from the opposite entrance that the guys had come in from. She was alone, and though the lights were dim, her smart outfit and put-together appearance turned heads. Archie's included.

“Shit, man, just go talk to her,” Aldo said. “Go sit with her if ya want, I ain't gonna take offense, and neither's anyone else.”

Smitty, Hugo, and Donny all muttered along.

“I talk to her every day,” Archie said. “I don't see the need to bother her _now_ , or—”

“Takin' her order isn't really talking, man,” Smitty said. Bridget and Smitty saw each other a couple times a week, when Smitty would be stuck opening or as early-mid—not that he and Bridget ever spoke, really. She and Archie were always chatting and flirting, even if it was just for a second or two. As much as Smitty wanted to roll his eyes at it, it was pretty sweet; Bridget seemed a little hoity-toity but she and Archie obviously had chemistry.

“Yeah, an' it's your _job_ to talk to her then,” Donny added. “She ain't gonna get the hint. Ya gotta show you ain't talkin' to her because it's worktime, but because it's playtime.”

“See, Arch? Donny here's queerer than a three-dollar bill and even he knows how to go 'bout talkin' up the females.”

“Dammit, Aldo, shut the fuck up!” He shoved at Aldo, a small wave of popcorn spilling from the bag in Aldo's lap.

Smitty snorted into his soda, and swore he heard a low rumble from Hugo beside him.

“Know somethin'? If you don't go an' sit with her,” Aldo told Archie, “I will. An' I don't think that'll make Donny here too happy.”

Donny nodded slowly, complete with a menacing glare. All that was missing was his trusty baseball bat.

“Alright,” Archie relented, momentarily checking behind them; Bridget always found her way to the back rows. “I suppose it wouldn't be too impolite to...”

With a dismissive shake of the head, Archie gathered his popcorn and exited the aisle, making his way back to Bridget. Smitty tried to watch without being too conspicuous; all he could see in the low light was Bridget's face tipped up as Archie sat down beside her, indicating he wasn't bothering her in the least.

The ads continued to flash across the screen; most were for the hundreds of stores at the mall, but some for local businesses, like the LaPadite dairy farm, or the bar across the street from the mall, Nadine's. Smitty had applied to work there as a bartender last year, before he ended up at Fluff-a-Friend, but the only shifts they had to offer didn't correspond with the bus schedule. Dammit, if only he could learn to drive—but it was a paradox, because when did he have the _time_ to learn, with working close to 45 hours a week?

Smitty checked his phone; the movie should start any minute now. He turned it off, settling deeper into the cushioned seat. Idly, he thought how he was glad he was friends with Hugo, Aldo, and Donny, sitting next to them and not behind them—he'd never have been able to see.

“Hey, hey, guys... You wanna know somethin'?”” Donny leaned forward, looking between Aldo, to Hugo and Smitty, and dropped his voice to a stage-whisper. “I heard eating popcorn is _gay_.”

“Then you musta done ate up the whole state of Iowa,” Aldo said, a tad impatient. Unlike Donny, he wasn't making any effort to whisper. “Donny, no one wants to hear 'bout your goddamned homo—”

“Fuckin' A, lower your voice! Why don't you just stand up and tell the whole theater—”

“Alright.” Aldo set his popcorn in the empty seat and made to stand.

Donny's arm flung out, keeping him from getting anywhere. Quickly, presumably so Aldo couldn't interrupt again, he told Hugo and Smitty, “It's 'cause you're eatin' a busted nut... geddit?”

Smitty pressed a palm to his mouth, pushing back a laugh. Beside him, Hugo just looked curious. Confused.

“See, someone gets it!” Donny shoveled popcorn in his mouth, clearly pleased with himself.

“They all get it,” Aldo said. “It just weren't even funny in the first place.”

“It wasn't funny because you fuckin' ruined it!””

“Maybe...” Hugo started. “You should both tone it down... Especially in front of Smitty.”

“I'm not a kid, Hugo,” Smitty said, slightly annoyed. Sure, he was the youngest out of all of them by far, but he was 25. A grown-ass adult. Who still lived with his mom and worked a thankless retail job with no plans of leaving any time soon.

But it occurred to him that Hugo probably thought he was only 18 or 19—21 at most; the curse of a baby face. Still... not a kid. Especially not one who had any issue with the topic being, for lack of a better word, discussed. To Aldo and Donny, he said, “'Sides, it's fine with me if you guys wanna talk about that kinda stuff—I mean, hey, I've sucked a few dicks in my time.”

Aldo let out a low whistle. Donny laughed so hard he almost choked on his popcorn. He was still laughing even after he coughed it loose.

Hugo, on the other hand, looked every bit as impassive as he always did. Smitty had no clue as to how he'd taken it, so maybe it would be best...

“Sorry, I shouldn't of—”

“No.” Hugo's broad hand clapped down on Smitty's shoulder. “You be yourself, Smitty.”

Smitty was glad he wasn't cramming popcorn in his face like Donny; he'd have choked too. But for a different reason: the lump of emotion forming in his throat.

He wasn't out to any of his Fluff-a-Friend co-workers, certainly not to his mom, and when he'd thought about how the first time coming out to friends might have gone, this was not anywhere close to the scenario he'd drawn up.

Maybe it was okay, that he hadn't planned this, and this was the _right_ scenario—his life hadn't gone anywhere according to plan, anyway.

He glanced at Donny and Aldo; how despite their bickering, they were past it, and Aldo's hand was on Donny's leg, a solid presence. The warmth from Hugo's encouraging pat still lingered as the theater faded to complete darkness.

Yeah. The right scenario—or more accurately, the right friends.

* * *

The movie wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible either; it was exactly what Smitty had expected, and he was glad to have gotten his money's worth. That was all he could really ask for.

The guys waited for Archie and Bridget, both of whom looked way too smiley considering the solemn tone of the movie's ending. They kept a distance as the two exchanged goodbyes and, from the fact that they both had their phones out, numbers. Bridget fluttered her fingers over at the group. Smitty gave her an imitation of a wave in return, but the other three remained stock still until Archie rejoined them.

“See? What'd I tell ya.” Donny nudged Archie's shoulder with his own as they headed out.

“More like what _I_ told 'im,” Aldo said from beside Donny. “But seems it's workin' out, either way.”

Once exiting the theater on the first floor level, Archie and Hugo said their goodnights and branched off from the others; they'd parked on the opposite end of the mall, closer to the Landstrom entrance.

Typically, Smitty took the bus to and from work—it was a half hour each way, including one transfer. But luckily, he didn't live too out of the way from Aldo and Donny. They'd always give him a ride after the movies, and other nights, if their schedules aligned, it'd be after a few rounds at Nadine's.

Usually, with their stride twice that of Smitty's, they were ahead of him, and he had to struggle to keep up. But as they walked to the east entrance, they were, for once, lagging behind him, and when Smitty checked on them, Donny had his mouth tilted very close to Aldo's ear. His arm was behind Aldo's back, and Smitty could just see Donny's thumb peeking around the hip, suggesting his hand was in Aldo's back pocket.

Quickly, Smitty turned away, feeling he witnessed something he shouldn't have. Aldo and Donny didn't keep it a secret that they were together, but he knew they wouldn't take kindly to being watched, examined, like they were some limited-time exhibit set up for mall-goers.

Smitty walked a bit faster—he just wanted to get outside, breathe the crisp Autumn air, not this dry, dusty recycled shit.

Several yards diagonal from him, away from the doors, a janitor methodically wiped down the benches and adjacent tables, picking up the trash left behind. Smitty knew he could never work a job like that—the shit he'd find just strewn around Fluff-a-Friend was irritating enough. Multiply that by eight hours a day and divide it by two dollars-an-hour less pay, and you got the one occupation he could never touch with a ten-foot pole—which made him respect the actual custodians a hell of a lot more.

Case in point: a potted fern by the entrance doors was hosting an empty soda cup from Gorlami's. With a sigh, Smitty retrieved it, and started towards the janitor.

“Here.” His voice wasn't loud, but the ceiling was a high frosted-glass dome, and created a dull echo.

The janitor looked up from the trash bag he was yanking out, and gave Smitty a tired, but friendly, smile. It was so genuine, so earnest, it stopped Smitty in his tracks.

The first thought that crossed Smitty's mind was _Oh, shit._ The first words that fell out of Smitty's mouth were, “Oh, shit.”

The janitor... was a _cute_ janitor. Dark eyes, darker hair, a soft round face that, like Smitty's, probably belied his actual age.

Those dark eyes blinked. First at Smitty, then at the cup in his hand. He reached out, made a grabby gesture. “I can... take that?”

Smitty swallowed, nodding dumbly and handing off the cup. It wasn't until the janitor had moved on and was changing out another trash receptacle, his back to Smitty, that Smitty was able to say, “'Kay, uh. See ya later!”

The janitor looked back, an expression more of confusion than surprise that Smitty was still there. “See ya?” he returned with a half-hearted wave.

Smitty backed away, catching up with Aldo and Donny, who were waiting outside the entrance. They walked to Aldo's car, and while Aldo and Donny continued talking about the movie and who-knew-what-else, Smitty couldn't stop thinking about his idiotic interaction with the janitor.

Maybe Smitty wouldn't be so quick to judge Archie about his nerves around Bridget anymore, if it was anything close to what he had just experienced.

* * *

Hugo didn't stop by the next day, breaking his streak. For a Wednesday, Fluff-a-Friend was busy, and Smitty didn't even realize his friend's absence until twenty minutes before the end of his shift. But he took it as a good thing; maybe Hugo's day hadn't been as hellish as the previous several.

Aldo waiting for him outside the store changed that assumption fairly quickly.

“What's goin' on?” Smitty asked, hitching up the backpack he brought to work every day. If Aldo was here on a friendly visit, he would have just come right into the store, or at least texted Smitty ahead of time, letting him know he wanted to hang out or talk. But no, he was all business, hands on his hips, posture and expression stern.

“Come on,” Aldo put an arm over Smitty's shoulders, a means to rush him along. “To my office.”

“Wait, what—?” Smitty felt bombarded; he wanted to get to the bus stop, chow down on the egg rolls he'd never gotten a chance to eat at lunch while he waited. “Hold on, man, at least explain—”

“Hugo.”

Stunned, Smitty couldn't find a reply. The rest of the walk to Aldo's security office was made in silence.

Aldo's office—that he technically wasn't supposed to share with Donny, but did anyway—was tucked away on a second floor corridor on the mall's north side, underneath the third floor food court where Smitty spent most of his lunch breaks. Approximately halfway between Fluff-a-Friend and Landstrom's, it'd been the setting of many after-hours get-togethers, where Smitty would impress Aldo by mixing him drinks (Aldo never seemed to be in short supply of liquor), or go up against Donny on the office's Playstation.

This, Smitty could already sense, was a much more somber occasion, a prediction that was verified when he entered the office only to find Hugo with Donny, bottles of rum and coke opened on the desk they were sitting at.

“Hey!” Smitty tried to hail Hugo's attention, but his friend just gave him a fleeting glance, then went back to staring into his drink—which clearly, was not his first of the evening. “Missed you at Fluff-a-Friend today.” Still no response. It was jarring to see Hugo like this—haunted, like a man who'd seen too much. “C'mon, Hugo... what happened?”

“That's what we've been trying to fuckin' figure out,” Donny said. “He won't tell us. All's we know is he walked out, 'bout two hours ago.”

“We found 'im over by the fountain when we were makin' our rounds,” Aldo said, closing the door behind him. Donny passed him a rum and coke that looked to contain very little coke. “Sittin' there, throwing pennies in, handin' some out to kids too.”

There was a fountain outside of the first floor of Landstrom's, made up with whatever foliage might be seasonal. Right now it was garnished with pumpkins and cornucopia, and some orange, pink, and red flowers Smitty didn't know the name of. The coins tossed in by shoppers were collected on a weekly basis, though Smitty hadn't any idea where it ended up going to—he presumed local charities, but couldn't be sure. The thought of Hugo there, despondently dropping in his own coins was... well, Smitty couldn't wrap his head around Hugo doing anything except soldiering forth, no matter what was thrown at him.

“I just don't get it.” Donny shook his head. “I mean, I'm glad you decided to quit that shitshow, but everything you kept tellin' us was that you were never gonna, not in a million years.”

Hugo grumbled—an attempt to speak?—and downed the rest of his drink. The glass made a sharp _clink!_ when he set it down, and his steely eyes went from Donny, to Smitty, to Aldo, and then beyond there—seeing something they couldn't.

“Things change.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you _really_ want to know how this came about, it's because **CakeFlavoredFinch** and I joked about how the Landa/Hellstrom pairing-smush name made us think of Nordstrom's, the fancy department store chain. After that, the idea exploded and we just decided to make up a ridiculous plot featuring all our favorite pairings. So. I know the Basterds fandom isn't really active anymore, even less so with the pairings in this, but we hope you like what we have to offer!! I recently left my part-time retail job of 7.5 years, and this is almost a sort of catharsis, of dealing with everything that job threw at me. 
> 
> Also, Fenech Mall is based heavily (though not exactly) on the Mall of America, in Bloomington, Minnesota. I'll perhaps add links from time-to-time, of images of the various locations in and around the mall to give better visuals.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3 Thank you for reading!


	2. Hellstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my umbrella warning for every Hellstrom POV chapter: there's gonna be derogatory/misogynistic/bigoted things expressed through both the narrative and dialogue that are, obviously, not at all in line with my own personal views and beliefs. I don't know how else to warn for it except by saying it's _exactly_ what you would expect because he is absolute garbage (as is Landa).

Dieter hadn't liked Hugo Stiglitz, although he didn't really like anyone who worked at Landstrom's except himself and, when he wasn't obfuscating stupidity, Hans. So while, from a personal standpoint, he wasn't the slightest bit troubled over not seeing Stiglitz again, many customers would be; Stiglitz had been a favorite.

He knew what he had to do—or rather, what Hans would suggest, and therefore took it upon himself to do so before even being asked.

Well, he'd do it after he finished this cigarette. He had to get a smoke in now, before that meathead of a security guard, Raine, and his minion, Donowitz, swooped in. They were always on Dieter not to smoke outside Landstrom's main doors, giving him “warnings” that were only meant to be patronizing. Like there weren't teenagers loitering on the roof parking lot to shoo away, or some homeless trash taking a piss by the delivery dock to tell off. No. They had to waste their time getting on Dieter's case, with their smug little smiles, like they were so superior to him, like they weren't the ones zipping around the mall on fucking segways, of all things.

Hans had told Dieter, then, if it bothered him so much, he could just quit smoking, and he wouldn't have to deal with them.

And Dieter reminded Hans that quitting smoking meant quitting Landstrom's. An empty threat—he'd never seriously consider quitting either—but it was amusing to see Hans worry, if even a little, about the prospect of running the store on his own, and so Dieter would throw it out there a couple times a month.

Which reminded him: it'd been some time since his last threat. He ought to get on that, slide a veiled remark in once he returned to the store with, hopefully, the news that they'd found a replacement for Stiglitz, and a competent one at that.

He stubbed his cigarette out and returned to the mall through an entrance halfway down west side instead of via the store. It was hardly a shortcut, but was closer to the movie theatre while allowing him to avoid Bridget von Hammersmark's discount make-up kiosk.

Dieter barely knew Bridget, but what he _did_ know was everything Hans had told him. And told him. _And told him_.

He'd seen von Hammersmark, and didn't understand all the acclaim. To him, it was no wonder her kiosk sold discount make-up. She looked every bit as cheap, as easy to ruin—only good for one night.

The person he was intent on finding was only slightly less grating than von Hammersmark.

Fredrick Zoller had been extended a job offer from Landstrom's months ago; he had what Hans had deemed as potential, but what Dieter viewed as nothing but a proclivity to kiss ass. Shockingly, he'd rejected it, which was unheard of for someone in Zoller's position, a poor college student. He'd informed them that while he was grateful for the opportunity, he felt it was a calling for him to pursue a job more adjacent to his chosen career path.

Which had been code for, “I want to shill hot buttery popcorn at a passable-at-best theater,” and Dieter wasn't stupid—he and Hans had been to the theater since, and seen what'd _really_ factored into Zoller's decision. Zoller might have prided himself on being in college for film studies, but his position at the Gammaplex was strictly related to its owner, who, in Dieter's not-so-humble opinion, was about as ordinary as her theater.

What Zoller had told them was that he was “following his heart”, but apparently what the naive, fawning little sycophant was actually following was an entirely different part of his body.

There hadn't been a time in the past few months when Zoller wasn't working, when Hans and Dieter came in. Of course, there was never time for conversation—thank God, because Dieter found Zoller's wide-eyed optimism to be perfectly inane, not charming like Hans did.

But a Friday matinee would be, Dieter thought, the ideal opportunity to chat the boy up, and was proven right upon entering the lobby of the Gammaplex. Hardly another patron in sight.

Dreyfus, the owner that Zoller was so pathetically obsessed with, blinked when Dieter approached for a ticket. “Welcome,” she said, flat and hardly welcoming.

He didn't bother to look at her, fishing out his wallet and the store's credit card. “One for _Operation Dyn-O-Mite_.”

“Two?” she asked with faux innocence.

Cute. Now he looked at her, giving her a condescending smile. “One ticket,” he repeated. “For _Operation Dyn-O-Mite_.” If Dieter wanted this level of impertinence, he would have spent the afternoon with Hans.

“Seven dollars.” With an equally tight smile, Dreyfus took his payment and made a show of ripping off a ticket stub for him. “Enjoy the movie,” she said in a way that was more threat than invitation.

She probably thought she was intimidating him.

Let her.

It almost made Dieter look forward to talking to Zoller, who might've been dense as a brick, but at least wasn't an uppity little bitch.

Zoller was, as predicted, behind the concessions; he probably never left, even slept there across the counter, just to demonstrate to Dreyfus how deeply his dedication to the Gammaplex ran.

Hans was better at this than he'd ever be, or ever _care_ to be. But Dieter could fake it—put on a customer service facade, so to speak, for a few minutes. It was Zoller; he didn't have to try _that_ hard.

Another trait Hans had been on about regarding Zoller was that the boy didn't even need to force himself to smile (unlike some people). He appeared genuinely happy to help customers however he could. Even Dieter, judging by the cinematic grin Zoller put on when he approached, and kept intact as he took Dieter's order and promised it'd be right up.

Dieter was unmoved. Nobody should enjoy peddling off popcorn to the masses like this. “So you like working here, Fredrick?”

Zoller had been an open book during his interview. Still was now, as he scooped fresh popcorn into a striped red-and-white bag. “Yes, I mean, it's great fun. Shosanna's the best manager; she's so kind and accommodating of my schedule, with classes—oh, I'm in film school, did I tell you—"

“Wonderful.” Dieter passed him the credit card to complete the transaction. “You plan on advancing your little career here? Maybe move up the ladder from popcorn boy to... what's the next rung, senior aisle sweeper? You get to clean up all the messes everyone leaves behind?”

If Zoller felt insulted, he didn't show it; he kept silent for a beat, then answered with sincerity, “Well, I haven't thought about it—whatever Shosanna asks of me, I suppose that's what I'll do. I'm mostly focused on my schooling right now.” His smile spread, imbuing his next sentence. “I hope it'll be me up on the screen some day—er, my movies, that is... but maybe as an actor too! Actor, director, producer—I'll do it all.”

“Sure.” Dieter picked at his popcorn. He wondered, if he were to flick a kernel from the bag, would it A) hit Zoller between the eyes? and B) be easy to pass off as accidental? “I'd say the only thing you wouldn't be any good at is silent films.”

“...What?” Zoller's brows furrowed in confusion.

“Nothing,” Dieter said, then changed the subject before Zoller could keep droning on. “Listen, I'm not just here for the movie; we've had a spot open up, and I know Hans would like you to be a part of the team.” Dieter hoped Zoller didn't pick up that he hadn't included himself in that statement. “There's plenty more opportunity there while you finish your studies.”

“Is something wrong?” Dreyfus entered the concessions, striding purposefully over to Zoller.

Dieter didn't say anything. He was interested in how Zoller would handle this.

Exactly as expected.

Zoller averted his gaze, fidgeting slightly before daring to look at Dreyfus. His posture was submissive, weak instead of assertive—like how Hans carried himself regardless of the situation. Whatever this potential was that Hans had seen in Zoller, Dieter sure as hell didn't.

“Mr. Hellstrom, he's here from Landstrom's, he—" Zoller indicated Dieter with a shaky sweep of the hand “—he was just telling me—”

“We all know where he works, Fredrick.” Dreyfus's expression was frigid, just as much at her employee as at Dieter. Zoller wouldn't have any luck trying to defrost this ice queen. “And this is where you work—you're not on your break, are you?”

“No, Shosanna, I—”

“Then work,” she told him curtly. She turned to Dieter, as if he hadn't just witnessed the exchange. Her lip inched up at the corner, a defiant curl to it. “He's working right now.”

“Is he?” Dieter said, smiling back like he was entertaining a child trying to boss him around.

“Perhaps you'd like to find your seat. The movie starts in five minutes.”

Dreyfus departed from behind the counter, and Zoller didn't even make an attempt to mask his gaze tracking her every movement, until she disappeared down the east wing of theaters.

Unbelievable. This girl was seeing more proverbial action than von Hammersmark, with how far Zoller had his face shoved up her snatch.

“I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't... I _am_ working,” Zoller stammered. In the background, the popcorn machine gave a few feeble pops. “But I could certainly follow up with Hans—”

“Mr. Landa,” Dieter corrected him with a sneer. _Ein-Zoller_ here would never deserve to be on a first name basis with Hans.

“Right. Mr. Landa. I promise I'll follow up with him if... if need be.”

“If need be...” Dieter repeated quietly, knowing full well there wouldn't be a need, so long as Dreyfus was in charge of the Gammaplex. “Understood. Thanks for your time, Fredrick.”

* * *

Hans's office was twice the size of Dieter's, but currently felt significantly more cramped due to all the mannequins housed inside. They lined the walls, taking up whatever free space was available, and one of them was stashed in the corner, behind the chair across from Hans's desk. Ever since it'd arrived, Hans had developed a habit of letting his gaze stray up from the person in the chair—Dieter; no one else was ever invited into his office—to the mannequin, gracing it with brief eye contact and a smile.

It was unsettling, to say the least, but so predictable that Dieter had been able to ignore it after the first few occurrences.

In general, ignoring anything meant to garner a reaction was the best way to handle Hans; Dieter had learned this many years ago.

And so, he acted as if Hans wasn't eyeing the mannequin instead of him, as he passed off the mocha he'd bought at Archbucks and sat down with his own drink.

“I didn't see you all day,'” Hans said distractedly, going back to paging through the financial ledger he was always combing over.

Dieter had to bite his tongue from quipping that, of course Hans hadn't—and wouldn't—since he was so enamored with all his stupid mannequins. He sipped at his coffee before replying, casually, “I went to see if that Zoller kid you wanted to hire would change his mind. Come back here, to replace Stiglitz. He doesn't.”

“Stiglitz?” Hans repeated, not looking up from the ledger. “Why would we need to replace him?”

“He quit on Wednesday.”

“Oh, I was wondering why I hadn't seen him the past couple days; he's hard to miss, you know. What a shame—for the customers, of course; I don't really care. But I didn't know he quit. Did he tell you that?”

“He said, verbatim: _'I quit._ ' You were there.” Those had been Stiglitz's words upon opening the changing room stall, and finding Hans on his knees, mouth engulfing Dieter's crotch. Dieter had been too busy yanking his slacks back up to see which of them Stiglitz had been addressing. “I don't think it gets much more to-the-point than that.”

“Mm, I suppose. But _you_ say that all the time. That you want to quit. And, interestingly enough, you never do.” At last, Hans looked up, mouth curved into a knowing smile.

Never did and never would, at this point, because this store—and Hans—had taken years off Dieter's life, stretched his sanity thin; he was going to see it through until the end, whatever that might be. He'd just complain about it the whole time.

Besides, if Dieter really were to quit, he wouldn't even tell Hans; he'd just walk out. The last time he'd seriously approached Hans about quitting—at their previous store, almost ten years ago, when Hans was just an assistant manager and he a lowly seasonal employee—he'd gotten conned into... whatever the hell this was.

He let Hans go back to his numbers—which he'd end up having to recalculate come Monday anyway, but Hans liked the authority it gave him, crunching the sales figures and assess projected labor, that sort of thing. Hans might have had the title of store manager, but that applied more to the human aspect of the store—he was universally adored by customers and (most) personnel, unlike Dieter. All the back end operations, like payroll and ordering supplies and stock weren't exactly Hans's strong suit, although sometimes he'd pitch in because no one—not even Dieter ( _especially_ not Dieter)—could tell him he couldn't.

Which is why there were currently a dozen extra mannequins in the office, with nowhere to go.

After a stretch of silence, and a few numbers scribbled in here and there, Hans said, “We'll put that new fellow—what's his name? The blond one, in housewares?”

“Wilhelm?”

“Sure.” Hans sounded as though he'd have accepted it if Dieter had answered with 'Fenech', the mall owner himself. “Yes, Wilhelm. We'll have him permanently moved to sporting goods, or at least through the holiday. You know how the seasonal workers are—they'll do anything you ask, eager to make a good impression.”

Dieter rolled his eyes. For as much as he liked to talk of quitting, Hans equally loved reminding him of where and how he'd started—as if any of that mattered now, other than that Dieter often felt he was treated as little more than temporary. Both professionally and... otherwise.

“You know...” Dieter took another sip of coffee. “We wouldn't be dealing with this if Stiglitz hadn't left in the first place.”

“It sounds suspiciously like you're saying it's _my_ fault he did,” Hans replied with false pleasantness.

“You were the one who dragged me to the changing room. So, yeah, I think the blame lies with you.”

Hans paused, took a thoughtful first sip of his mocha. “Hm. It's almost as if you care about Stiglitz's opinion of the whole—”

“ _Don't_ ,” Dieter warned him sharply. Hans loved dredging up the past, particularly if it involved Dieter making regrettable life choices.

Another sip of his drink, and Hans's smirk quickly fell into a frown. He removed the lid of his mocha, looking at his drink with distaste.

“Did you ask for no chocolate chips on top?”

“I know your fucking coffee order, Hans.” Archbucks had been open for nearly four years—almost as long as Landstrom's—and every day, no matter if it was morning, afternoon, or evening, Dieter would find time to order himself and Hans the same thing: coffee, black, and a whole milk dark chocolate mocha; whip, no chips. “Should I go back and have the _Teesäufer_ remake it?”

This was why Dieter was glad he didn't bother with anything more than drip coffee; he didn't trust Hicox to do his job correctly, to get the order right. From what Dieter had heard, that idiot Brit didn't even drink coffee. How was it then, exactly, that he'd come to own a coffee shop? Then again, he was in with Fenech, so it wasn't like he needed things like qualifications or a functioning brain to open a store here.

“No, no, it's fine.” Hans waved him off, and mouthed off the whipped cream, chips and all. Surprisingly, he didn't bother adding in a suggestive comment.

“It's not fine. Why is everyone in this mall so useless?”

“And why are _you_ so tense?”

“I'm not _tense_ ,” Dieter answered through gritted teeth.

Hans chuckled. “If you're this stressed during a weekday in October, how do you expect to survive the holidays?”

“Maybe I won't,” Dieter replied with a hopefulness only partially feigned.

Ah. That flash of concern, before Hans simply rolled his eyes. “Is this you putting in your two weeks notice? Please, if you want to off yourself, don't do it on the premises; I don't really savor the idea of dealing with all that paperwork.”

“Oh, no, trust me: I'd go out of my way to make sure it was as much of an inconvenience to you as possible.”

Hans shut the ledger, his full attention now on Dieter. He had that look, the one where he'd found something he'd wanted—and knew he would get it. Setting the mocha aside, he stood and walked over to one of the mannequins nearest the desk. He paused to brush imaginary dust from the mannequin before turning to address Dieter.

“So what's wrong, then, that you want to inconvenience me so badly? Are you unhappy?” he asked, mockingly. Dieter's happiness never mattered to Hans one way or the other, and it never would.

“Do I look unhappy?”

“Always, although somewhat less so, now.”

It was true; Dieter's mood had improved, however slightly, due to the callous remarks he'd been able to throw at Hans.

“You already know what's wrong,” he said. “I hate this fucking mall. It needs to overhauled, from the ground up. It's too bad we aren't in charge of it, like Fenech is.” Then pitiful little shops like Archbucks or von Hammersmark's kiosk wouldn't exist—there would be standards put in place, and precedent would be put on sales, not sentimentality. If Landstrom's wasn't anchoring the mall, it would be in financial ruins; they were far and away the most successful tenant.

“He's not in charge of it,” Hans said. “He just owns it, is the face. Other people make the bulk of his decisions—or well, they try to. Advisors, you know, behind the scenes, although he has the final say. I've spoken to him on several occasions, and he hasn't a clue about how to run something as involved at this mall; he just likes to think he does.”

“Well, then it's too bad we aren't those people.”

“Oh, you don't mean that, do you?”

Dieter hadn't ever thought much about it. He didn't have any concrete aspirations beyond Landstrom's, but his alleged superiority complex—Hans had said this once, and it was difficult to discount anything Hans ever said, even if he veiled it with a flippant tone or wedged within casual conversation—wasn't conducive to satisfaction when he was forced into a setting where he had so little control. Of course, admitting he wanted anything more than what he— _they_ —had now was also admitting how much he relied on Hans, and would need to have him be a part of it.

And there were very few things that sounded less appealing than _that_.

He chose his words carefully. “I think... were the opportunity to present itself, it would be tough to decline it. But I don't necessarily want it to happen. I'm just venting, that's all.”

“And if that opportunity presented itself in the near future? Would that change your mind?”

Dieter wasn't sure he liked where this was going. “What do you mean?”

“Well, our dear friend Ed has been considering, for a while now, selling the mall to an outside owner.” Hans paced to the next mannequin, inspecting it as he spoke. “Retiring, altogether. But, of course, emotions have won out thus far, and he can't bring himself to do it. Doesn't like the idea of it no longer being in the family, except he hasn't any other family to pass it on to.”

Dieter scoffed. What laughable reasoning. “How tragic,” he said dryly.

“Isn't it, though?” Hans continued, an exaggerated sympathy in his tone. “It's all a bit messy, really. You know, Fenech used to run this place with his father—he was the one who founded it, originally, then brought his only son on board. But after he passed, what was Fenech going to do? Give it up? No, of course not, out of respect for his father's memory. But now? Well, given the right offer... he's open to changing his mind...”

“You sure know a lot about Fenech.” Not that Dieter was surprised; Hans was good about making sure he tread in the right circles, and was a social chameleon, molding himself to whatever the crowd and the setting demanded of him.

“And that's where you and I differ.” Hans smiled, belying the cutting nature of his words. “I know you don't think it pays to get to know people—to learn whatever you can about everyone you meet, but that's why I'm in charge, and you're... not.”

Dieter couldn't disagree with this, but Hans must have taken his silence for insolence—which, sometimes, was the case.

“I mean, think of it this way,” Hans went on. “This store wouldn't be what it is today if I hadn't bothered to get to know you, and use that to my advantage.”

Hans could insult Dieter all afternoon and into the evening if he didn't put an end to it now. Enough of this. “What's your fucking plan with Fenech?”

“Oh, but do I _really_ want to divulge all that to you, if you're just going to quit on me?”

“I'm not...” _Gott_ , this was painful to say, but he was successfully intrigued enough to momentarily swallow his pride. “I'm not going to quit. You know that.”

“I really don't, though,” Hans teased, moving closer to Dieter and carefully extracting the coffee cup from his hand. His smile faded away, the playful gleam in his eyes hardening into an unmistakable hunger. “Perhaps you could remind me where your loyalties lie?”

Fuck.

All rational thought evaporated from Dieter's mind. Irritation and desire coursed through him simultaneously, and he acted on impulse. He rose to his feet and snagged Hans by the tie in a fluid motion, meaning to crush his mouth in a kiss. But Hans resisted the pull, backing up and bringing Dieter with him.

“Excellent start!” Hans latched to Dieter's wrist, removed his grip on the tie with great deliberation. Slowly, he drew Dieter's wrist to his mouth, gently pressed his lips against it in what was less of a kiss and more of a taunt. “Now, if you'd be so kind as to keep it—”

Dieter curled his fingers into a flattened fist and drove it forward, striking Hans with his palm. Hans staggered back gracelessly into one of the mannequins, clutching his mouth.

“Fuck you for questioning my 'loyalties',” Dieter snarled, loosening his own tie and flinging it aside.

“Well, really, that's the point here, isn't it?” Hans laughed quietly and rubbed at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, the mannequin's arm wobbled and cluttered to the floor. Hans's suit jacket joined it seconds later.

With no wall space available, Dieter shoved a mannequin out of the way. Hans started to protest but surrendered once he was backed up against said wall and being groped roughly through his slacks.

If there was any opportune moment to get answers— _honest_ ones—from Hans, it was when his defenses were at their lowest. When he was as he was now, hips rocking to further the friction of Dieter's hand as whispered pleas for more, for him to hurry, slid out between shaky moans.

“How long have you been plotting this?” Dieter growled. However aroused he was now, he was even more impatient, and if Hans didn't give him a direct answer...

“Hm?” Hans closed his eyes briefly, sighing contentedly as his slacks were worked open and Dieter's hand thrust into the waistband of his boxers. “O-Oh, a month or so, now. I was going to surprise you with it—”

“Bullshit, you were.”

“Or perhaps,” Hans said, pushing Dieter's hand away to return the favor of undoing his belt, unzipping his slacks. “I never really thought you'd care if I wanted to convince Fenech into letting us have control of the mall.”

“And what if he says no?”

“He won't,” Hans said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Nobody says no to me—but you already knew that, didn't you?” His mouth pressed warm and greedy along Dieter's neck; there would be a mark left behind, that a collar could only partially hide.

The last thing Hans needed—the last thing Dieter _wanted_ to give him—was any sort of verbal affirmation, but he couldn't help it. His eyelids slipped to half-mast and his slacks fell to his knees as, true to Hans's claim, all he could manage was a hoarse “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you only imagine that they're just going to get worse? (Yes, actually, I can and hopefully you can too.) :) :) :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! :) Kudos and comments are welcome <3


	3. Utivich

Smiling down at the little girl with stringy red hair, Smitty helped her with adjusting the shimmery silver tutu she'd picked out for her purple stuffed triceratops.  
  
Without warning, the girl—Libby; she'd told Smitty her name right off the bat—snatched the dinosaur up and whirled around.  
  
“Mommy!” Libby called out, waving the dinosaur around. “Look, look at her! She's a pres-toric princess!”  
  
Libby's mother was on the other side of the store, talking on her Bluetooth. Several shopping bags were looped over one arm, and a couple more lay at her feet. She looked exhausted, and completely uninterested in being here—in fact, she hadn't even spoken a word to Smitty other than a mumbled request to help Libby pick out “something, anything, I don't care.”  
  
“She's very nice, honey.” Libby's mom barely glanced up from her phone. “Are you all ready? I'm sure this boy is very busy and has a lot of other work to get done.” She gestured vaguely to where Smitty was standing.  
  
Which wasn't _un_ true—Smitty was the only one working tonight; one of their new seasonal hires, who he was supposed to train, had no-called no-showed for the second shift in a row, and so he'd be closing by himself, yet again. But honestly, he would rather get out ten, fifteen minutes late if it meant seeing a sweet kid like this Libby girl go home happy.  
  
He didn't appreciate being called a “boy”, but parents like Libby's mom weren't uncommon, and what bothered Smitty more than anything was that he had assumed, by now, he'd be desensitized to it. Maybe he was just too sensitive, like Donny and Aldo were good-naturedly always teasing him about.  
  
“You still hafta pick out a name for her,” he said, focusing on Libby and not her mother. Libby lit up, and followed Smitty to the touch-screen station where the animals' “birth certificates” were created and printed out. She happily hopped up on the stool, her skinny legs swinging back and forth as Smitty showed her what sections to fill in.

Other than watching the animal skins get filled with fluff, choosing a name seemed to be most kids'—and adults'—favorite part of the whole creation process. There was a teddy bear in a Red Sox uniform in Aldo's office—a gift from him to Donny—and Smitty wasn't sure he'd ever seen Aldo in as good a mood as he'd been when he, quite proud of himself, named the bear “Teddy Bear-game.” (Smitty wasn't about to let Aldo give Teddy the middle name he wanted—all the names were saved in Fluff-a-Friend's system, and Smitty would have been severely reprimanded had his manager seen it.)  
  
“How do you spell 'princess'?” Libby asked once she'd entered her own name, and the triceratops's birthdate.  
  
After dutifully spelling it off for her, Smitty said, “That's a pretty name.” Not exactly unique, sure, but at least it was something fitting, that she'd picked out herself. “Alright, we'll print it out and—”  
  
“I'm not done!”  
  
“Okay...” Smitty blinked, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”  
  
“She's not just _any_ princess,” Libby proclaimed. “She's Princess Sparklepoop the Fourth.”  
  
While it wasn't any “Teddy Fuckin' Bear-game,” Smitty knew he should probably get permission from Libby's mom before letting the girl give the dinosaur a name that, by Fluff-a-Friend standards, would be considered crass.  
  
Not only that, but should he really encourage it if it landed him in trouble with the parent—the one _paying_ for the dinosaur? He took another look at Libby's mother, who was still animatedly chatting away, and then at Libby, who was snuggling the triceratops tightly to her chest, and he had his answer.  
  
Once Princess Sparklepoop IV's certificate was printed, Libby skipped over to her mother to show everything off. Smitty waited for her reaction with bated breath—but she barely even glanced at the dinosaur or the certificate, and was already fishing out her wallet.  
  
Smitty boxed up the dinosaur into the store's trademark carry-home box and took the lady's card. He'd almost swiped it through before he remembered one last thing, and made sure to pitch it to Libby.  
  
“You know, Libby, if your mom wants to spend five dollars, you can have this adorable stuffed crab too.” Smitty gestured to the pile of round orange plushies on the counter behind the registers. He tried to sound enthusiastic about them—like _everyone_ should own one. “They come pre-stuffed and everything, ready to be cuddled.”  
  
The crabs had been a limited edition plushie that Fluff-a-Friend had sold for a summer promotion—but not limited enough. Smitty could count on one hand the number of crabs he'd sold over the course of the past several months. There was nothing _wrong_ with them, per se—they just weren't as “cute” and “happy” as the other plushies the store offered. They were, quite literally, crabby, with their beady eyes slanted angrily and mouths stitched into exaggerated frowns.  
  
“Hm, well, they look a bit...” Libby's mom frowned too, almost matching the crabs. “I mean, I think we've bought enough, today.”  
  
“They're ugly!” Libby beamed up at Smitty with a gap-toothed grin.  
  
Well... that was one way of putting it.  
  
Smitty wasn't about to argue; he'd given his pitch, and as enjoyable as it'd been helping Libby, getting a head start on closing would be more than welcome since he was here by himself. He had forty-five minutes left, and with any luck, could be out of here less than fifteen minutes after close—and be on his way to Nadine's with Aldo and Donny.  
  
After Libby exited the store, box swinging in one hand and dragging her mom with the other, Smitty immediately took his till from the register to the back. Even if he pulled the cash, he could still take credit transactions, which was what the majority of their sales were.  
  
Technically he wasn't supposed to be in the back if no one was up front—but who was going to know? He could partially see out to the store anyway; only the far side, where all the licensed bears and outfits were, was hidden in a blind spot, and that was never where customers went to first.  
  
Settling in, Smitty turned up the music on his phone and took his time verifying the tills from the earlier shifts. This killed off about fifteen minutes, and the plan was to use the last half-hour to rearrange the boxes of holiday friends they'd just gotten in. Even if he wasn't working tomorrow, he wanted to make the day as smooth and painless as possible for his co-workers—and it seemed like, quite often, he was the only shift lead, let alone employee, with that mentality.  
  
It took another ten minutes to get the holiday boxes together—there was no rhyme or reason to their stock area, it seemed; new items were just thrown wherever there was the space. With a stack of boxes loaded up in his arms, Smitty steadily made his way back out to the floor. He dropped them behind the register counter with a _thud!_ , startling the “customer” who was in the center of the store, messing around with the Halloween bears on the main display.  
  
“Can I help you... _sir_?” Smitty asked, edged with playful sarcasm.  
  
“I dunno, _can you_?” Donny grinned, like his reply had been particularly witty.  
  
“Not the kinda help _you_ need, Donny,” Smitty quipped back. “What're you doin' here so early? Gonna help me close?”  
  
“Yeah, right, like I'd do that.” Donny made his way over to the counter. “Nah, it's been a quiet night for once, so I thought I'd hang around 'til you're done. Won't get in your way, promise. Then we can book it right on outta here.”  
  
Smitty had already planned to hang out with Donny and Aldo after work; they'd head over to Nadine's for an hour or so, just to drink and shoot the shit. And tomorrow was Smitty's day off—after _nine days_ straight—so he could afford to be out a bit later, and down an extra drink or two.

“ _And_ ,” Donny leaned back, resting his elbows against the counter. “I'm here 'cause I got good news, and I got better news. Which you want first?”  
  
“Whichever?” Smitty could use a day at the mall without bad news of any sort, which always felt inevitable when it came to retail.  
  
“Okay, well, the better news is: you won't guess who I saw today, comin' outta Decocco's.”  
  
Donny pronounced the name with flat, hard 'o', so it sounded more like "De-cock-o's". He was hardly the only one who did this, and it was only fitting the store sold t-shirts, mugs, and other items with nothing but profanity and lewd images—and was therefore a place Donny could be found at least once a week. Not that Smitty could judge him; he would swing in from time to time, since it was right next to the food court on the third floor, and a number of the shot glasses with inappropriate phrases kept in Aldo's office were ones that Smitty had purchased over time.  
  
“You're right, I won't,” Smitty replied, walking along and fixing the display bears that'd been knocked around throughout the day due to wild, chubby hands grabbing and squeezing them. He smiled at Donny, and pointed to the bottle of all-purpose spray he'd left on the other side of the display. “Toss me that. And you better not say you saw Aldo, that's hardly news.”  
  
Donny grinned and underhanded the spray bottle to Smitty. “Hugo.”  
  
“ _Hugo_?!” Smitty caught it, staggering backwards—both from the force of Donny's throw, and from shock.  
  
“Fuckin' right, I saw Hugo! He was there to interview for the manager position.”  
  
“He... _what_?”  
  
“Yeah, you remember couple'a weeks ago we busted the store manager there for stealin' all those bongs over the past several months? Well, they've been lookin' for someone ever since, only got stand-in managers from other stores. I told Hugo 'bout it after he quit Landstrom's, but I didn't think he'd actually take me up on it.”  
  
“I wouldn't have thought it either. He wasn't exactly the biggest fan of this place.” Smitty waved a hand out towards the store's exit, indicating the mall.  
  
“No kidding. He said he don't exactly _love_ workin' at the mall, but who does, right? But he told me it's the most fun he's ever had, gettin' to know us, and he wants to stay 'round where he's wanted, you know?”  
  
Hugo and “fun” weren't two words Smitty would've considered putting together in the same sentence—even the same paragraph. But Smitty could believe it—and more so, _wanted_ to, because he was of the same mind; years of retail hell should have been intolerable, but Aldo and Donny, and more recently, Hugo and Archie, had made it less so.  
  
And Smitty knew it was also out of practicality. That Hugo needed the money, too; he couldn't survive solely on his military separation pay. So a managerial position at Decocco's, of all places, wasn't what Smitty would have thought ideal for someone as taciturn as Hugo, but he wasn't about to tell _Hugo_ what to do with his life.  
  
“It'll be fuckin' awesome, he'll be so close to our office,” Donny added. “He don't got the job _yet_ , but you know he's gonna.”  
  
“You sound like you wanna quit being a guard just so you can go work for Hugo.” Smitty laughed, moving on to the next section of shelves to wipe down.  
  
“Nah... actually, that's the _good_ news. Bein' a guard's got one thing every other position at the mall don't.”  
  
Smitty smirked. “Your boyfriend?”  
  
“No!” Donny sounded as indignant as Libby had earlier. “Well... _yeah_ , but...! Shut up, no, look, check _this_ out!”  
  
Reaching to his back pocket, Donny withdrew...  
  
“Is that a _taser_?” Smitty asked, knowing it couldn't be anything else.  
  
“Fuck yeah, it is!” The taser let off a low thrum as Donny switched it on momentarily. “You remember last year, things started gettin' out of hand 'round the holidays?”  
  
Smitty nodded. He distinctly recalled one incident in the rotunda, where some mascots for a kids' cartoon had shown up to promote a holiday special that was set to air. One of them had been waylaid by an angry mother who felt slighted when the mascot, a floppy-eared dog, hadn't invited her kid up on the stage to participate in the musical number the mascots were putting on, in favor of another child. She'd bitten Aldo when he tried to restrain her, and he'd needed six stitches; he'd brushed off the wound like it was nothing more than a paper-cut.  
  
The thirst in Donny's eyes—Smitty only saw that when he snuck glances at Aldo, and thought no one was looking—would have been terrifying if they weren't friends. “Aldo's got one too. Me an' him got an over-under goin' on when we'll get to break it out for the first time and use it on some perp. He said Black Friday, but I think it's gonna be before that.”  
  
The way Donny said it suggested this was more than a prediction. That he'd already penciled in the date and time—and possibly, victim.  
  
“Okay, but I don't think you're supposed to just... _use_ it whenever you feel like it.” Smitty quickly added, knowing how Donny would counter. “Even on those Landstrom dickheads.”  
  
“That fuckin' pissbaby's always smokin' outside the entrance! Smitty, if you had to listen to the shit he says—”  
  
“But you can't _tase_ him.” Smitty had (thankfully) never interacted with the Landstrom managers, but for as awful as they allegedly were, he still didn't think electrocuting them was the answer. _  
  
_“Geez, you sound like Aldo.” Donny sighed, pocketing the taser and letting Smitty get back to work.  
  
After dusting down all the shelves, Smitty returned to the boxes he'd left behind the register. He could unpack the skins, count them quickly to make sure they matched the inventory slips. It was an almost mindless task, as were many of the closing duties that were often eschewed by his co-workers in favor of noodling around on their phones.  
  
But it was something that'd been instilled in Smitty and his brother from a young age—taking pride in what he did, no matter how mundane it might be. It was a mantra both his parents had lived by, and had served them well. Do whatever your best is, that day, to make it through to the next. Although right now, he was only feeling he had enough left in the tank to get to the next hour, but that was alright—Donny and Aldo and the booze would take him the rest of the way.  
  
Smitty placed the first box on the counter once he finished inventorying it. Donny came wandering over and peered inside.

“What's all this shit?” Sifting through the skins of white snowbunnies, he pulled out a handful, all clumped together. The shimmery fur glittered brightly.  
  
“Holiday,” Smitty said, mentally counting through the next box. “We actually got a decent amount of Hanukkah stuff this year. If you're trying to find something for your brother and sister, we're selling a bunch of different gifts sets with the bears and bunnies. I can set something aside for you.”  
  
“Nah, I'm lookin' for something Aldo might like. I wanna get Teddy Bear-game a buddy. But I ain't blowin' the bank here; got anything on sale?”  
  
Aldo didn't exactly seem the cute-and-cuddly-stuffed-animal-type, but neither did Donny, which explained why Teddy sat in Aldo's office, proudly displayed but collecting dust nonetheless. Smitty assumed the purchase was made more because they were friends, and Aldo was trying to show his support of Smitty, than because Donny actually needed a Red Sox teddy bear.  
  
“Well,” Smitty paused, turning to glance at the crabs behind the register, “if you want something cheap, then—”  
  
“Don't try to sell me one of those fugly-ass crabs, Smitty. I 'lready told you those things look like a zit with eyes.” Donny snagged a tawny brown pelt from the second box, that was obviously a reindeer. “What about these, huh? These Rudolph-lookin' bastards?”  
  
“Those aren't even _on_ sale yet.” Smitty grabbed the reindeer skin back, shoving it into the box. He quickly marked down the total before he forgot. “We'll start selling them to the public come Sunday, but—”  
  
“Aw, c'mon, I know you guys got perks to workin' here, don't try and fool me. There ain't nothin' you can do?”  
  
Donny was right: as an employee, Smitty could purchase new stock ahead of time. And, on top of that...  
  
“Sure, okay, I can buy one now with my employee discount, and then you give me the cash. Sound good?”  
  
“Yeah, sure, how much I owe you?”  
  
Smitty ran his employee number through the register and brought the total up. “With my discount, and after tax—it's gonna be twenty-six bucks and change.”  
  
“What the—... _with_ your discount?! Why are these things so fucking expensive!”  
  
Pretending to be slightly offended, Smitty told him, “You can't put a price on companionship.”  
  
“Sure you can, it's five dollars a minute 'ccording to the ad in the alt-weekly. I can get you the number if you—”  
  
“Donny.” Smitty sighed, but was smiling all the same. “That's a little different. You want it or not?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, it's for Aldo, 'course I do. Ring it through.”  
  
Doing as he was told, Smitty hoped Donny was aware he wouldn't do this for just anyone. This could have easily bought him a week's worth of frozen pizzas and boxes of snack cakes. But it just showed the good faith he had, that Donny would reimburse him within a couple days, whereas he'd known plenty of people who wouldn't have.  
  
Circling back out to the floor, Smitty motioned for Donny to join him over by the Stuffer, the enormous machine that was perpetually churning the fluff used to fill all the plushies. “Great, now let's fill him up.”  
  
“Oh, now _I_ gotta stuff it too? You're the one who should be payin' me!”  
  
“C'mon, that's half the fun, right? Gettin' the little guy all...” Smitty stuck his hands into the reindeer skin, spreading them out so the skin expanded—and looked a positively demented miniature rug. “Snuggli-fied.”  
  
“I fuckin' swear, if you tell Aldo I 'snuggli-fied' this little fucker for him...” A sigh. “Yeah, fine, let's get him stuffed.”  
  
Donny opted to stand, instead of taking a seat on the stool in front of the Stuffer, which was more aptly designed for a small child. Smitty found his place on the other stool, in front of the pedal that controlled the flow and speed of the fluff being expelled down the short tube sticking out from the Stuffer. Typically, this tube would be poked into the bear's back. But for four-legged animals, like the horses or the reindeer here, the only place for the tube to go was...  
  
“Holy shit, he's takin' it up the ass!”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that—"  
  
Donny could barely talk, for laughing. “Oh, man, then this really _is_ perfect for Aldo.”  
  
“Alright, so, that's a little too much information.” Even though Smitty'd heard way more descriptive stories from his mom, from her job as a nurse, about blood and bodily fluids and growths and abscesses and—the list went on. Of all Smitty's friends, she and Donny would get along swimmingly—well, as long as he didn't bring up gay sex like this.  
  
“Here, lemme do it!” Donny managed to say, taking hold of the reindeer before Smitty could agree.  
  
And Smitty stole it right back when Donny started pumping the reindeer back and forth on the tube.  
  
“Grow up, Donny.” He moved it about methodically to ensure the stuffing was evenly distributed into its legs and tummy.  
  
“Look's like the reindeer's the one doin' a bit of growin' up.”  
  
Smitty snorted out a laugh. Okay, so he wasn't completely immune to how childishly amusing it was. And it wasn't like he'd expect anything else from Donny, either. “So, you come up with a name for him?”  
  
“Well, if it's for Aldo, how 'bout 'Raine-deer'?”  
  
“You mean like your 'Raine, _dear_ '?”  
  
It was tough to fluster Donny, but emphasizing how smitten he was with Aldo tended to do the trick.  
  
“Hey, I toldja to shut up!” Donny shoved Smitty.  
  
“Watch it!” Smitty's foot slammed onto the regulating pedal as he tried to keep himself from falling off the stool.  
  
The pedal jammed. Stuck. And wouldn't _un_ stick.  
  
The speed and pressure of the fluff stream grew suddenly and exponentially, sending Raine-deer shooting out of Smitty's grip and skidding across the floor. More fluff followed, spewing out as Donny tried in vain to scoop it up.  
  
Smitty hurried over to the outlet tucked between two of the display walls and unplugged the Stuffer. But it was too late.  
  
Fluff. _Everywhere_. It was like a sort of teddy bear horror movie, their innards strewn across the sales floor as if sending a message to their brethren.  
  
“Fuck.” Smitty stared at the scene, at Donny still trying fruitlessly to stop the sea of fluff from spreading. “ _Fuck_!” he repeated, this time loud enough that it caught Donny's attention.  
  
Where the hell was he supposed to start? Even though it could be worse—like how Archie had told him about some kid puking in the soda cooler a couple months ago—fluff wasn't exactly easy to corral. It just... _floated_.  
  
Like it was doing now, as Donny swiped at one piece and sent several more bobbing away from him. It was painful to watch.  
  
And so he didn't, quickly making his way to the store's gate, and pulling it down so this bullshit couldn't be further compounded by nosy customers. When he turned, there was Donny, still trying to pick fluff up in cringe-worthy fashion.  
  
“Hey, quit it, you're just spreading it out and making it worse!” Smitty grabbed up Raine-deer and chucked it at Donny. “Here.”  
  
Fluff showered from Donny's hands as he dropped it so he could catch the animal. He stuffed it under his bicep. “Whaddaya want me to do, stand around with my thumb up my ass? I'm tryin'a help!”  
  
“I know!” Smitty, who considered himself infinitely patient, felt that patience stretching long and thin. “I know,” he repeated. “I just... I didn't want to be here late and now I'm gonna have to.”  
  
He had no idea where the maintenance tickets were kept, but his best guess was the binder in the back next to the computer, that was a sort of reference for all the shift leads. Thankfully, his intuition had proved correct. Smitty located the binder, opening it to find instructions on submitting maintenance tickets tucked in the front pocket, because this was not an uncommon occurrence.  
  
“Okay, but it's not the worst, right?” Donny stood in the doorway of the back room, blocking Smitty from exiting. “We're gonna give you a ride home anyway, so take as long as you gotta, alright? I'll just let Aldo know... oh, and shit, Smitty, I'm sorry, I'll... I'll buy you a slice at Gorlami's next time you're workin', to make up for all this.”  
  
“Oh, wow, Donny, I'm touched,” Smitty said sarcastically, laying his hand over his heart. “A _whole_ slice of pizza.”  
  
“Well, what, you _don't_ want it, then? Or, shit, I'll buy you an extra drink at Nadine's—”  
  
The thread of patience snapped, frustration blaring forth like all the fluff from the Stuffer. “I don't even fucking care! Forget Nadine's, or a ride or pizza... fuck, I just wanna clean this up and go home!”  
  
Donny took a step backwards, looking properly unnerved. “Sheesh, you sound like you're _mad_ at me or something.”  
  
“Yeah, I'm fucking mad at you! I just wanted to get outta here and now I have to fill out a maintenance report and tell my manager and—...!” It didn't matter. He was wasting time by complaining about it. “Look, how the hell am I supposed to clean up all this fluff? I need like, a vacuum or something and we don't have that.”  
  
Or, he'd have to do it by hand. The fluff blobs were too light and wispy to sweep—they'd never stay put in the shoddy tray he used to clean the rest of the floor.  
  
“Settle down, wouldja? I'm on it.” Donny backed away. Raine-deer was still clutched under his arm with fluff spilling out of its ass. “I'll have a custodian sent over, they can bring one of those industrial dry vac things. That's what they're here for, shit like this.”  
  
Shit like this. Smitty was so tired of _shit like this_ , even if was, in truth, few and far between. He sighed, muttering a “Yeah, okay,” and found, among all the dank memes and old spreadsheets saved on the computer, the program used to submit maintenance tickets.  
  
Donny, too, was a man of action, immediately barking something into his walkie about sending someone over with a vacuum.  
  
The ticket didn't take long to complete, and was much more straightforward than Smitty had feared. The hardest part came when he had to let his manager, Michael, know about the incident. He wasn't going to call, not this late, but he still shot off a text. It was completely filled with bullshit, because he wasn't about to admit that it was he and his friend who'd busted the machine, no matter how inadvertent. Honesty was not always the best policy, at least not in the world of retail.  
  
It gave him time to calm down, too. He didn't get this upset at work—not at customers, anyway. It wasn't worth it, and all-in-all Smitty thought of himself as a pretty chill person. Getting pissed at Donny, if anything, reminded him of past tiffs he'd had with his brother—just stupid shit that, ultimately, got dropped, forgotten about.  
  
After what felt like an eternity but was probably more like fifteen minutes, Donny could be heard saying, “Yeah, alright! About fuckin' time.” He poked his head into the back. “Hey, Smitty, get out here, let this guy in.”  
  
Glued to his phone hoping Michael would respond with a “lol k” or a thumbs-up emoji, it wasn't until he was on the floor that Smitty realized “this guy” was not simply _a_ janitor.  
  
"This guy” was the _cute_ janitor.  
  
Smitty didn't open the gate. He just stood there, staring, with the key suspended in front of him.  
  
“Dammit, Smitty, gotta do everything my fuckin' self.” Donny tore the key away, unlocked the sliding gate, and hauled it open.  
  
“Oh, hey!” The janitor smiled at Smitty—a real smile, like he was truly glad to see him. “It's you, 'oh shit' guy.”  
  
Donny laughed, looking over with a mischievous grin. “You're the what-now?”  
  
Great. “Nothin', it's—... nothing. ” Smitty motioned to the sea of fluff behind them. “Look, we... well...”  
  
“Shit's fucked,” Donny finished. “Kinda had a bit of a—”  
  
“An incident,” Smitty interrupted, side-eyeing Donny.  
  
“Looks more like a massacre,” the janitor said. “Right out of a horror flick.”  
  
Smitty smiled to himself, recalling how he'd thought along those same lines. He'd never felt so self-conscious and awkward about showing someone where an electrical outlet was, and helped the janitor uncoil the cord for his vacuum. It came to life, whirring loud and obnoxious like it was getting ready to blast off into space. Not a few moments later, the even-more-obnoxious chorus of “Sweet Caroline” ( _BA-BA-BAAAAA_!) rang out over the hum of the vacuum. Donny's cell phone.  
  
“Shit, hold on... It's Aldo. Now what the fuck's goin' on...?” Donny wandered off to take the call, and Smitty stood there lamely, kicking back wisps of fluff that puffed out of reach as the vacuum hungrily sucked them up.  
  
Suddenly, the vacuum droned and a spate of fluff came shooting out from the tube. Smitty swore and hopped out of its path. Instantly, the vacuum went back to its normal setting, re-inhaling all the fluff it'd just spewed out.  
  
“Sorry, guess I hit the reverse button by accident.” The janitor didn't sound sorry at all—or like it'd been much of an accident.  
  
But despite himself, Smitty was grinning. “That wasn't funny.”  
  
“It was a little funny,” the janitor said, as Donny came back over.  
  
“Listen, I gotta head out; there's prosti-tots on the Landstrom's roof again. Hey, maybe I'll get to try out my taser.” Donny patted his back pocket.  
  
“Crossing my fingers for ya, man.” Smitty was trying to remember that he was still mad with Donny, but it was tough, on the heels of joking around with the janitor.  
  
“You good here?” Using Raine-deer, he pointed to the decidedly smaller pile of fluff. “Sure you don't want us to come by and getcha? We'll give you a ride.”  
  
“No, it's fine. Go. Leave.” Smitty made a shooing motion, hoping Donny would get the hint. “Tase some prosti-tots.”  
  
Donny relented, thanking the janitor and promising he'd get Smitty the cash he owed by next week. Clutching Raine-deer by the head, he ducked under the half-open gate and left.

“What'd you tell him? Tase some... prosti- _whats_?” The janitor asked, as the final bits of fluff got sucked up.  
  
Smitty rolled his eyes, gave a short laugh. “That's their code names for the teens always dicking around on the Landstrom's roof. I swear, they could probably write a book on that alone, some of the shit that's happened.”  
  
The Landstrom's roof parking was constantly being overrun with teenagers out past curfew, most of them couples looking for semi-private place to fool around. Not a weekend went by where Aldo and Donny didn't receive a call to deal with them. Smitty couldn't believe that _anyone_ , teenager or otherwise, would want to spend their Friday nights at a department store parking lot, much less try and get some action there, but on the other hand... if Cute Janitor here suddenly suggested, “Hey, let's hang out on the Landstrom's roof, just you and me,” what was he gonna say? No?  
  
So maybe he could believe it, just a little.  
  
“Yeah, me too. I don't even work _with_ customers like you do, and I'm telling my roommate stories every damn day about something that's happened, something I saw or heard. I've only been here a few months but it feels like a lifetime.”  
  
_Roommate_. Smitty immediately wondered if it was an actual roommate, or like, the way Donny and Aldo were “roommates.” Not that it mattered, but... _ugh_ , _why am I so hopeless and gay_? _  
_  
“Wait 'til the holidays hit—sucking up bear stuffing'll seem like downtime compared to what you'll experience every day in December, I'll bet.”  
  
“Guess I'll have to get some pointers from you on how to survive it... er, you gotta name?” The janitor asked, unplugging the vacuum and coiling up its cord. “I really don't wanna keep thinking of you as 'Oh Shit' Guy.”  
  
Was it ridiculous that Smitty liked the way he phrased it? _Keep thinking of you_? That'd be a-okay with him, even if it was as “Oh Shit” Guy.  
  
“Smithson. But call me Smitty... _please_.” He'd always thought his name sounded so _upper-crust_ , which is what his parents had been going for, but was definitely not the case.  
  
“Okay, Smitty, then call me Omar. Like I said, sounds like you know how to make it outta this place alive.”  
  
“Yeah, hardly,” Smitty admitted. “The only tip I got is make friends—it'll make you like working here a lot more, even when they do dumb shit like break the Stuffer. Not that I don't like workin' here anyway, but getting to see my friends every day makes it way more...” He picked up a candy corn-print teddy from the Halloween display next to him, and put on a fake, cartoonish voice, making the bear wave its paw. “ _Bear_ -able!”  
  
Smitty leaned against the counter, blindly reaching his arm out to rest upon it, an attempt to look casual. Collected. Cool.  
  
He knocked over the Frankenstein teddy, which, in a domino effect, sent the rest of the bears and the giant plywood pumpkin patch behind them toppling to the ground.  
  
“You good? You want any help there, or...?” Omar took a step forward, sounding as confused as he probably looked; Smitty couldn't bring himself to check, scrambling for the bears.  
  
“No, no, don't need help. I'm good... I'm _so_ good right now.”  
  
Smitty grabbed the scarecrow cub, putting it back into its stand and straightening its pose. His fingers closed upon its fuzzy paw—and the sound chip embedded inside.  
  
“ _I love you BEAARRRY much!”_ the cub chirped.  
  
Smitty wanted than to throw himself into the Stuffer and meet a bitter end—of course the fucking thing had to be busted.  
  
Omar looked at the bear, then to Smitty. “Cute.”  
  
“Cute?”  
  
“Yeah, that you can make 'em talk. It's cute, bet the kids love it.”  
  
Smitty nodded. “Yeah, yeah. The kids. Lovin' it.” He swallowed, having to consciously _think_ how to form words as he continued, “Look, um... are you sure you don't want anything for your trouble? Like a gift card or—...?” _My phone number_. Or maybe Omar wouldn't see that as a reward.  
  
“Nah, I'm just doing my job. Honestly, I'd rather clean up teddy bear guts than the nacho cheese sauce that was all over the escalators last week.”  
  
Omar was smiling as he said it, and Smitty couldn't help but laugh lightly too. He'd heard about it from Aldo; some kids (probably some of “prostit-tots” that'd been chased off the Landstrom's roof) thought it'd be funny to toss some nachos they'd bought at the third-floor food court down to their friends on the first floor.  
  
Smitty's first instinct was to swap stories, to tell Omar about the lady from a few days ago, who'd left a half-eaten corn dog propped up against a beagle dressed like a farmer. How he wasn't sure if it'd been some kind of meta statement, or random placement.  
  
But he also suspected Omar wanted to get out of the mall as much as he did.  
  
“Okay, well, I should probably double-check the maintenance report when through, so I can get the hell out of here before something else in this store explodes. Thanks again, though.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
Wheeling the vacuum along at his side, Omar headed out of the store. Smitty followed, so he could pull the gate (again) and _officially_ close for the night.  
  
“Hey.” Omar paused once outside the store, and turned. “Do you normally work this shift? Closing?”  
  
Smitty reached for the gate. “Oh... yeah. I mean, it's not set or anything, but I close a lot during the week.”  
  
Why did Omar care? Regardless, as Smitty drew the gate down between them, he responded with a smile as if there'd been a correct answer to his question, and Smitty had given it.  
  
“Yeah? Cool, good to know.”  
  
“I guess... So, um...” Smitty wanted to say something... _meaningful_ , or at least brighter than the “See ya!” he'd issued Omar when they'd first met. This shouldn't be so difficult; he was friendly—maybe not outgoing, but _personable_ enough...  
  
He was so focused on Omar, on his smile, that the key missed the gate's lock and jangled out of his hand and fell to the floor. “ _Shit_ , dammit...!”  
  
Laughing, Omar crouched down and reached through the gate's slats to retrieve the keys. Smitty did the same, and their hands brushed; a jolt pricked Smitty's finger, and he knew it was just static from his skin grazing the metal gate, but it felt... _stronger_ than that on his end; like something out of a hokey rom-com movie Archie would pan on his blog.  
  
Omar, on the other hand, didn't seem to have any reaction at all to the touch, but his smile remained intact—wider, actually—as they both stood, Smitty with the keys back in his possession.  
  
“See ya, Smitty,” he said, sounding easy, natural—a complete one-eighty compared to how Smitty had said it upon their first meeting in the rotunda.  
  
The only commonality was that, like Smitty had that night, Omar also sounded like he meant it.

* * *

Much to his chagrin, Michael didn't text Smitty back; he called him, shortly after Omar left. By the time Smitty finished explaining the whole thing (which thankfully Michael bought, because Smitty was such a reliable, hard-working employee, who would _never_ fuck anything up out of malice or negligence; the Stuffer pedal was, apparently, a piece of shit that he'd been meaning to replace for the past six months, anyway), it was almost 10:30. This late, the buses only ran every hour; if Smitty really wanted to, he could stay clocked in another half-hour and work on setting up the holiday plushies.  
  
Except—and Omar probably had a little to do with it—he was in a somewhat better mood now, and had changed his mind about going to Nadine's.  
  
He decided to call Aldo. Donny would undoubtedly start asking questions about Omar, about the machine, and all that, while Smitty just wanted to get out of here. If he _did_ tell Donny anything about Omar, Smitty preferred it be after getting some booze in himself first.  
  
Two rings, and Aldo picked up. “Yeah?”  
  
“Hey, did you guys head over to Nadine's yet?”  
  
“Yep. Been here a half hour already— 'the fuck do you think it is, it's Smitty,” he said, to a Donny asking loud enough who Aldo was talking to. “Donny told me what happened. Said you were pissed at 'im and weren't comin'. Why?”  
  
_Fuck_ , of course. It wasn't _that_ far of a walk—maybe a half-mile, tops; across the gigantic parking lot outside the south entrance, then over the busy highway separating the mall from a sprawl of suite hotels. Any other night, Smitty would have welcomed the walk as time to clear his head but tonight, he was putting precedent on speed and effectiveness. Which meant a drink, or three or four.  
  
“Nothin', just... it's whatever, I'm not pissed anymore. I'm over it,” Smitty said, staring at the Stuffer and still idly wondering if he was stuck inside some fever dream. “So, I'll be there in a bit.”  
  
“Sounds good.” A heavy pause, where Smitty would've expected Aldo to hang up. “You 'lright, there?”  
  
“I'm fine.” Except for wanting to crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment. “Just... tell Donny if he really wants to make it up to me, then he can have a Kamikaze waiting for me when I get there.”  
  
Aldo knew better than to pry, even though Smitty could picture the squinted concern on his face. “Will do.”  
  
Smitty hung up, letting out a sigh.  
  
He was drained, and just feeling it now, minutes removed from being on the clock. Drinking with Aldo and Donny was more about Aldo and Donny—about having a social life, _friends_ , which hadn't always been the easiest thing for Smitty to come by. But for them, he knew, it was predominantly about coping with the bullshit they dealt with on a daily basis.  
  
Tonight, though? Yeah, it was definitely about that for Smitty. He didn't hate this job, or even dislike it, but unpredictable shit like this was not uncommon, and made it _exhausting_.  
  
Yet, even as he crossed the parking lot, his mind kept drifting from the promised Kamikaze to Cute Janitor. Omar. As much as Smitty needed tomorrow off to decompress, he was looking forward to being back at the mall again, if for the chance to see Omar.  
  
How pathetic was it, that this random guy, who he'd only really talked to once, was dominating his thoughts so soon? Sure, he had a nice smile and a relaxed demeanor but so what?  
  
Omar was probably straight, anyway.  
  
A few drinks, and Aldo and Donny, would help him figure it out—if it was pathetic, not if Omar was or wasn't straight. And if it didn't, then it'd make Smitty forget, at least until the morning. It wasn't much of a solution, but after tonight, Smitty didn't want a solution.  
  
He just wanted a fucking shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit late because editing this chapter kicked my ass. I'm sorry it's so long! My goal is to keep chapter lengths between 3000-6000 for the sake of readability but characters don't always cooperate, sigh. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read/kudos/commented so far! Chapter 4 is on the horizon... hm, maybe the worlds of Landstrom's and Fluff-a-Friend will start to collide ;)


	4. Utivich

One of the topics Smitty had discussed at length while drinking with Donny and Aldo had been how time did not exist in the same conceptual structure it did inside Fenech Mall, as it did once you exited it.  
  
That was the only explanation as to why, approximately thirty-some hours after the Stuffer debacle, Smitty returned to the mall having felt he'd done little more than blink. He didn't _dread_ coming here, by any stretch. He just couldn't fathom it'd been so soon.  
  
That his whole day off was _gone_ , just like that. So much for Saturday being a “day of rest.” More of a day of _get shit done because otherwise I'll have to wait a whole 'nother week_ _and I literally can't._  
  
Well, it'd been a half day of rest, for Smitty, the kind that came less from exhaustion and more from just one drink too many. Then he'd woken up a little before noon and spent the other half hurrying around doing chores and running out to do the shopping his mom couldn't, which further factored into the _Did I even have a day off_? feeling that gnawed at him as he was sucked into the black hole known as the Fenech Mall approximately forty minutes before his Sunday shift.  
  
He could have walked through the mall with his eyes closed, but today, heavy with sleep as they were, his eyes were wide open.  
  
And looking for Omar.  
  
Which was pointless, because Omar had implied he only worked evenings, but maybe he was in the same boat as Smitty. Where he was also stuck working _every_ Sunday, which were a whole different animal than this weekday shifts, ones Smitty often wished he could euthanize.  
  
But no, no sign of Omar. No sign of anyone else, really, either. The mall was fairly empty, only the occasional employees, or senior citizen walkers who utilized the mall's spacious, square layout for daily exercise.  
  
It wouldn't stay this quiet for long, and Smitty took the first step into ensuring he was prepared: heading to Archbucks to get caffeinated.  
  
Archie, as always, was in good spirits. How he did it this early and without coffee, day-in and day-out, was one of the great unexplained mysteries of life, up there with the whole wibbly-wobbliness of time within the mall, or why Hugo had up and quit Landstrom's (Smitty still didn't know, which made him doubt anyone else did).  
  
Smitty ordered his usual, a large white mocha and a blueberry muffin. And knew he sounded utterly defeated while doing so.

“You need a little extra pick-me-up?” Archie asked, handing Smitty his change. “I've got just the trick.”  
  
“Yeah man, please.” Smitty stuffed the change, a dollar and a couple coins, into the tip cup. “ _Need_ is an understatement. Is it that obvious?”  
  
Archie hesitated, looking to see if anyone had come into the store behind Smitty. Then, quietly, he said, “Donny told me about the bear machine breaking.”  
  
Smitty groaned. Great. Ten years from now, people were going to be talking about Smithson Utivich, the guy who stood idly by and let Donny Donowitz destroy Fluff-a-Friend's heart and soul. This was his peak in life—it was all downhill from here—and he'd been little more than a bystander. And it wasn't even entirely _true_.  
  
“It didn't really _break_ , more of a... temporary malfunction,” Smitty explained. “It's all fixed up now.” Michael had texted him the yesterday, saying that the pedal had been replaced, shortly after store open. “Donny tends to, you know, _exaggerate_.”  
  
Archie selected a blueberry muffin from the bakery case, bagging it up for Smitty. From the bar on the opposite side, the barista, Erika, called over that she needed the white chocolate chips restocked.  
  
“So, you still down for the movies with us on Tuesday?” Smitty changed the subject, digging into his muffin and picking off chunks of the soft streusel topping.  
  
“Ah, about that, I'd _like_ to go with you lot, but—” Archie cut himself off abruptly, his gaze lifting to something behind Smitty. Not unkindly, he said, “I need to take this order first. Just wait over there.”  
  
Smitty did as instructed, backing away to the pick-up counter on the far end of the bar. He took out his phone, pretending to scroll through it, but instead surreptitiously watching the wordless exchange as Archie seamlessly took the customer's payment—without even having verbally taken the order—and handed the card back.  
  
Was he important in some way? His outfit, black slacks and matching blazer with a brown turtleneck underneath, instantly gave away that he must work at Landstrom's; no other stores in the mall had a business professional dress code. But that didn't mean he was of any special standing. Still, Smitty felt he'd seen him before, _somewhere_.  
  
With the coffee urn right behind the register, Archie filled a large cup and passed it off, issuing the fakest “Have a good day” Smitty had ever heard, from Archie or anyone.  
  
It wasn't Landa, the notorious store manager—he was older than this man, who looked around Archie's age, and was as thin as Smitty, with a pale complexion and slicked back hair. If anything, he had an air of snobbery, not intimidation. But as he headed over to wait by the bar, Smitty glimpsed an unsettling look in the man's eyes. Like he might snap at any second, for the most innocuous of reasons.  
  
And that's when it hit him.  
  
Donny and Aldo had a large board on one wall of the office, a photo directory of so-called important figures in the mall. Its most key players, as if it were its own little governance, and with the mall big enough to have its own zip code, it sort of _was_. Executives, like Fenech, or Aldo himself as head of security; the owners of the four corner tenants, like Shosanna Dreyfus and her Gammaplex, and...  
  
Landa and Hellstrom's photos stood out because Donny and Aldo had vandalized them with sharpies, adding horns and blackening eyes and, for Hellstrom, scribbling in a dick near his mouth. Landa's, Donny had said, and there wasn't enough alcohol in Aldo's office to erase the image it'd drawn up in Smitty's mind.  
  
Even if he hadn't seen Hellstrom's photo before, his ever-present hint of a sneer, like everything in the immediate vicinity disgusted him, would have sealed it. And considering how unpleasant Hugo and Donny—and everyone else who'd interacted with him even once— had described him as, it was likely _true_.  
  
Smitty went back to browsing his phone, replying to a text from his mom, who'd just gotten home from her overnight shift at the hospital, and another from his brother, Anderson, who was abroad for a college semester.  
  
Usually Erika, who'd been at Archbucks several months now, would make some kind of conversation with Smitty; they had overlapping interests when it came to video games and would chat strategy or about the latest DLC to their favorite games. But today, she was silent, and the espresso machines whirred and hummed. The sound of the milk being steamed and frothed—Smitty had learned that the thicker the milk, the louder it _screamed—_ was piercing, not unlike the stare Hellstrom had fixed on Erika as she went about her job.  
  
Archie, meanwhile, had disappeared, presumably to get those chips Erika had mentioned. And to avoid Hellstrom.  
  
From his periphery, he saw a cup set down on the counter. Shooting off another text to Andy, Smitty pocketed his phone and reached for the drink. A split-second after his own fingers had closed around the cup, another hand clamped over his wrist.  
  
“What do you think _you're_ doing?”  
  
Letting out an embarrassing yelp, Smitty's head snapped up to find Hellstrom glaring at him with unconcealed fury. Smitty loosened his grip, and Hellstrom threw his hand aside before snatching the drink up.  
  
“Think you could sneak your little hands in there and steal my drink?”  
  
Little...? What the _fuck_...?  
  
“N-No, I...!” Smitty stole a momentary glance in the direction of the bar—Archie hadn't returned; there was only Erika, back to Smitty as she wiped down the cold bar. “I wasn't...! Wasn't trying to—”  
  
“Whatever,” Hellstrom spat. “You're Stiglitz's little friend, aren't you? Figures he'd find shifty types like you.”  
  
Being called shifty (and little) was one thing, but hearing Hugo insulted eroded Smitty's fear away and ignited a particular brand of anger he didn't even know he possessed. God, he wished Donny was here with his tazer.  
  
Smitty opened his mouth, set to tell Hellstrom to go walk into traffic, when another familiar voice stole their attention.  
  
“Good morning, darling!” Bridget's clear voice filled the small shop as she made her way to the register. Archie had just come out of the back, pitchers in one hand and containers of chocolate chips stacked in the other.  
  
Since when had Archie been promoted to _darling_ by Bridget? Smitty bit back a smile, unable to hide his amusement. Hellstrom, on the other hand, scoffed, sounding even more offended than when Smitty had “tried” to take his drink.  
  
Archie passed the items off to Erika and was all smiles as he took Bridget's order, his demeanor a complete 180 of when he'd taken Hellstrom's. They easily could have chatted for another ten minutes—Smitty had seen it for himself, their natural conversations from the moment Bridget entered and all through Archie making her drink and sending her on her merry way—but this was like a trailer, compared to the film he might normally witness. Bridget paid, folded a tip into the jar, and watched with a lipstick-framed grin as Archie went off to the bar.  
  
She looked elegant, even doing something as commonplace as leaning against a counter; Smitty didn't even _like_ women like that, and found himself staring. Bridget noticed, and, still smiling, gave him the same fluttering wave she had after the movie the other week. “Oh, hello to you too, Smithson.”  
  
Bridget blatantly ignored Hellstrom, which was apparently even more of an affront than Smitty's failed theft. Throwing Smitty one last glare, he left the store just as Archie turned around and placed the mocha _actually_ meant for Smitty on the pick-up counter.  
  
“Sorry about the wait. Hope the little addition in there makes up for it,” he said in all sincerity as Smitty took his first sip.  
  
As always, it was delicious, the perfect morning pick-me-up. But the sweetness was _different_. Better. In fact—Smitty took another sip, trying to place just what the taste was...  
  
“Holy shit, this is good! it tastes like Oreos.”  
  
“That's because there's Oreos melted in it. One third of the chips, a scoop of cookies, pump of vanilla—you can't even taste the coffee. Bridget turned me on to it.” He looked to her appreciatively as she came strolling over.  
  
“Yeah, I'll bet.” Smitty hid a smirk with another sip.  
  
Archie paused, glancing out towards the storefront, where Hellstrom had exited less than a minute ago. “Hellstrom wasn't giving you trouble, was he?”  
  
Bridget, normally so cheerful, rolled her eyes as she took her own drink. “Oh, Archie, he _is_ trouble.”  
  
“He's a bitch on wheels, is what he is,” Erika called from over on cold bar, and Archie didn't correct her. He gave a non-committal shrug that said, as manager, he could neither confirm nor deny this. But the smile trying to fight out at the edge of his mouth could _not_ , by any stretch, be interpreted as denial.  
  
Smitty wondered just how it was, that he managed to stay employed if he was so prickly, that he seemed to have offended, or was offended _by_ , every other employee in the mall.  
  
“Yeah, so actually,” he started, “Right before Bridget came in...”  
  
As he sipped at his mocha, Smitty told Archie and Bridget about his honest mistake of almost yoinking Hellstrom's drink.  
  
Archie was utterly unsurprised, which Smitty expected. But Bridget, too, didn't seem the least bit shocked that Hellstrom had reacted so confrontationally. Which made sense; surely she and Hellstrom must've crossed paths in the shop before, especially lately, with how often she was here. Smitty could only imagine her being on the receiving end of the same glare Hellstrom had given him, though he couldn't comprehend what possible reason.  
  
“Oh, don't let him get to you, Smithson,” Bridget said. “He's infuriating, but I doubt he'll do anything truly harmful—that would put him in bad standing with Landa. I keep trying to tell Archie here the same thing—that Hellstrom's all bark and no bite.”  
  
Smitty looked to Archie, who nodded slightly, confirming it; Bridget was more in the know about this than he'd thought, but this wasn't the time or place to go into further depth—not that Smitty was sure he wanted to hear the details, anyway.  
  
Erika came up alongside Archie, in the midst of readjusting her apron.  
  
“Hey, Arch, mind if I dig into one of those expired sandwiches in the back?” When he told her to go on ahead, she looked to Smitty. “You want one, Smitty? I can set a couple of the turkey bacon swiss ones aside; we got plenty.”  
  
Smitty almost said no; he didn't want to appear _too_ needy. This wasn't the first time Archie or the rest of the Archbucks employees offered him, or any of the other tried-and-true regulars, extra food that would've just been tossed, anyway. The bakery items, Smitty knew, went to a local food shelter, so he never asked for any of those, but the sandwiches? They were better than anything he could make himself, plus Mom liked them, and he felt it was the least he could do.  
  
“Yeah, sure. I'll come by at lunch. Probably need a refill by then, anyway.” Archie and his staff were good with letting mall employees get free refills on drip coffee, regardless of what their first drink was.  
  
Bridget looked at her wrist, at a watch that was dangly and shiny enough to be a bracelet.  
  
“Oh, I can't believe it's almost ten already; I'll come by on lunch too,” she said, looking between the both of them, and then solely to Archie. “We're still on for Tuesday night, then?”  
  
“Movie night,” Smitty commented. What he'd asked Archie about minutes ago.  
  
“Yes,” Bridget said, giving Archie's arm an affectionate squeeze. “Then drinks at Nadine's.”  
  
“Of course,” Archie smiled, removing her hand with a gentle squeeze of his own. “Wouldn't miss it.”  
  
Once Bridget had bid them farewell and was out of earshot, Smitty fought back a smirk as he remarked, “Drinks at Nadine's huh?” It was _the_ hang-out for mall employees, sure, but a hot date spot too; Smitty was fairly certain the night he'd meet Aldo and Donny there, they were on a date—or, what constituted their version of one.  
  
“Bridget's been helping me with my blog, and it... well, it's nice to chat things over, over drinks.” Archie said. “You know, she's done theater before, and a few local advertisements. She knows a lot about that sort of thing. She brings a different perspective.”  
  
“You're really into her... uh, perspectives, then,” Smitty replied, hiding what was now a full-blown smirk by sipping at his mocha. Archie wasn't near as easy to rile up as Donny, but that didn't mean Smitty couldn't try.  
  
Archie averted his gaze momentarily, and failed at sounding stern when he told Smitty, “Keep it up and next time you'll get decaf.”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Smitty relented. He should probably head on out too, but he really wanted to know: “Just what exactly _is_ Hellstrom's deal, though?” This guy seemed to have it out with not just Archie and Bridget, but _all_ of Smitty's friends.  
  
“Er, I don't think he has a 'deal',” Archie said. “He's always been like this, since we opened. I've tried to be friendly with the chap but I'm convinced he wakes up every morning determined to be miserable.”  
  
It matched up with what Hugo would tell Smitty. Landa was apparently the “nicer” of the two but to Smitty, that seemed like saying he'd rather step on a Lego than slam his fingers in a door. He hadn't heard near as much about Landa being a dick to other mall employees, but he couldn't wholly believe someone who condoned Hellstrom's shitty attitude was as kind and benevolent as the image he projected.

“Why don't you just ban him?” Smitty asked.  
  
Not that Hellstrom seemed likely to abide by any ban Archie put in place, but Aldo and Donny could enforce it—which would be pretty entertaining to see play out.  
  
“Tried that already,” Archie said. “One day last year I started to read back his total and he snapped at me that he 'knows how much my overpriced coffee costs'. The next time he came in, I told him he was banned. And, well, then they must've put some rule in place banning all their employees from coming here, because I didn't see any of my other regulars from Landstrom's here the rest of the week.”  
  
“They weren't boycotting out of solidarity, or something?” Smitty asked, even though he could hardly believe that was a possibility.  
  
“No, I'm certain they were forbidden to come here; I didn't even see Stiglitz. Our sales really suffered so I had to let him come back.”  
  
“That sounds petty.” And incredibly in line with something Hellstrom would do, from all the things Hugo had told him plus what little interaction Smitty had had with him thus far.  
  
“Doesn't it?” Archie agreed. “I hate saying that we give him special treatment, but all I care about is getting him out. So Erika or whoever's on bar'll start making his order the second he comes in. It's not so bad anymore; I don't have to exchange a single word with him, and can get him out in a minute or two."  
  
Smitty shook his head. “Yeah, but it's lame you can't get back at him somehow.”  
  
“Who says I haven't?” Archie said, his smile growing when Smitty gave him a curious look. “Now I just charge him double.”

* * *

The incident with Hellstrom haunted Smitty the rest of the day. Which sucked, because, especially for a Sunday, his shift was uneventful. Busy enough to keep him occupied, thankfully, but not so much that he felt overwhelmed—and the Stuffer and its new pedal didn't give him or his co-workers any trouble, which was also a huge plus.  
  
The holiday plushies being displayed should've encouraged him, even if he agreed with Michael that it was way too damn early—not even November—to have Christmas merch out in full force.  
  
But not even _that—_ and seeing more Hannukah plushies and outfits than ever before—completely lifted his spirits.  
  
He'd gone to Archbucks on his lunch break, as promised, and all he'd done in those precious thirty minutes off the clock was dread that he might encounter Hellstrom again. He'd been tempted to go into Landstrom's and give Hellstrom a bullshit apology, but knew there wasn't much chance Hellstrom would accept or believe it. Ultimately, Smitty decided _no_ ; he hadn't done anything wrong. So he wasn't going to kowtow to this douchebag.  
  
And what would the point be? It would've been a matter of time, anyway, considering how much he hung out with Aldo and Donny, and Hugo and Archie and Bridget, that by association, he'd be deemed a nuisance. This had only expedited the process.  
  
Besides, it didn't _bother_ him that Hellstrom had this opinion of him, necessarily. The sticking point was mainly that Smitty wasn't keen to invite conflict into his life where it definitely wasn't needed. Except it felt like he'd inadvertently done just that, anyway.

The coffee refill had powered him through the remainder of his shift, and he didn't let himself get an attitude (like Hellstrom undoubtedly would've) just because he was feeling off-kilter himself. He forced himself to exercise even _more_ patience and courtesy with customers, and with his co-workers. He'd even let the associate he was closing with, Oscar, clock out almost an hour early; Sunday evenings, especially during football season, were hardly ever busy enough to warrant more than one person closing, and Oscar had wanted to leave to go do just that—head to Nadine's to watch his favorite team in prime-time. That, and Smitty was getting sick of recounting the events of Friday night, with Donny and the Stuffer, to him over and over. 

Finally, 6:20 rolled around. Smitty, as always, went over to pull the gate halfway, which _sometimes_ gave any last-minute customers enough of a hint to make their visit short.  
  
As he reached to draw the gate down, he spotted, from the corner of his eye, someone entering the store. Just as he was about to throw a greeting their way, they issued him a “Good evening!” first.  
  
Which was strange in its own right—the customer addressing him first—but his response was automatic.  
  
“Hey, welcome to Fluff-a-Friend.” He dropped his hands from the gate and turned to face them; they were already examining the holiday display in the center of the store. “Just to let you know, we're closing in ten min—...”  
  
The rest of the words went dry in Smitty's mouth when the customer looked up from the bears and to him with a wide, welcoming smile. As if Smitty were the one being invited into _his_ store.  
  
It was like a cryptid sighting, seeing Hans Landa roaming anywhere outside of Landstrom's. Everyone knew Landa rarely left his store, unless it was to go to the Gammaplex, and yet, he was the most recognizable figure in the mall. A celebrity, of sorts, if a mall could have one.  
  
Landa's smile remained, and he gestured for Smitty to continue. “Pardon, you were saying...? I didn't catch all of that.”  
  
“Ten minutes. We'll be closing, then. But don't rush. Take your time.” This couldn't be a coincidence, Landa visiting on the same day as the run-in with Hellstrom. No matter how much he thought they were both tools, he was getting paid to be the exemplary salesman. Not paid _enough_ , but not being paid enough was better than not being paid at all.  
  
“Oh, I won't be long,” Landa said, casually making his way over to the main shelf, where all the standard bears and puppies stood. “Just doing a bit of window shopping.”  
  
Smitty followed and nodded, then, realizing Landa wasn't looking at him anymore, added, “Well, great, let me know if you have any questions.”  
  
“I do, actually!” Landa broke from studying a polar bear, smiling over at Smitty. “But, how rude of me, not introducing myself first. My name is Hans Landa. I own and manage the department store on the north corner, Landstrom's.” He extended a hand for Smitty to shake.  
  
Smitty took it, hoping his grip was as firm as Landa's. It was sweaty, that was for sure. “I'm Smi—”  
  
“Smithson Utivich, yes. I know who you are,” Landa finished, releasing the handshake.  
  
“Yeah... yes. That's me.” Smitty prayed, this time, that his notoriety was due to the Stuffer malfunction, but he somehow knew that wasn't the case.  
  
“And _this—_ ” Landa swept an arm out to indicate the empty store “—is the lovely little taxidermy palace I've heard so much about!”  
  
“It—... “ Smitty blinked, bewildered. “The taxider—?”  
  
“Now, I know you and Hugo Stiglitz were quite close,” Landa went on over him. “I remember him being something of a loyal customer to your store. Always see him coming back from lunch with a box or two. You know, your packaging is quite distinct, an advertisement in and of itself.”  
  
“Er, yes—”  
  
“It's a shame about losing Hugo, really, but good for him, moving on and moving up. A store manager now, I last heard! What was it, that place that sells those lewd holiday sweaters that everyone's always clamoring for?”  
  
“Yeah, Decocco's, he—...” Wait, he wasn't about to tell anything about Hugo to his former _boss_ , who he'd parted on bad terms with. Smitty retrieved his customer service voice, willing it not to waver as he spoke. “Mr. Landa, is there something I can help you with?”  
  
“Oh, right. Well, it would seem I'm not the only Landstrom's employee that you've had the pleasure of meeting today.”  
  
There was no point in lying. “Right, I had a... a misunderstanding with your...” Pause. Better to not bring up the implications of Donny's photo directory artwork. “Your assistant manager. When I was at Archbucks this morning.”  
  
“Ah, right, _my_ assistant manager,” Landa said, chuckling to himself. “That's what I'd been informed of as well. And I've—”  
  
“Mr. Landa, if you'd let me explain, then—”  
  
“—Come to apologize on his behalf,” Landa finished as if Smitty hadn't spoken.  
  
Smitty swallowed, the spike of anxiety he'd initially felt flattening out. “It's not... I mean, we all have bad days.” He thought about how he'd snapped at Donny when the pedal had jammed. Anyone who witnessed Smitty's outburst might have thought him just as much as asshole.  
  
Of course, that'd been a freak occurrence. With Hellstrom, it seemed to be a pattern. Not that he was going to tell Landa that.  
  
“But it's not representative of the Landstrom's culture, you understand?” Landa went on, as if Smitty _did_ understand, “Terrible, really, can't even let him out amongst the public... ah, but don't worry, he and I have already discussed it, and it's been dealt with accordingly.”  
  
This was _bizarre,_ not at all what Smitty would have expected the outcome to be when Hellstrom had nearly torn his hand from his wrist this morning. Landa might have been assertive, not somebody Smitty would want to cross, but he also didn't seem to be the tyrannical manager Hugo had described—but even that, Hugo hadn't said much about, only that he'd “heard things”; not anything he'd experienced personally.

And come to think of it, for as much as Donny and Aldo lumped Landa and Hellstrom together as some undetachable two-headed entity, all their complaints and frustrations seemed to come solely from interactions with Hellstrom, not Landa.  
  
“Er... thank you...?” Smitty wasn't sure what else to say—and didn't want to prolong Landa's visit, either. “Your apology, I mean. I appreciate it.”  
  
“Yes, of course you do,” Landa went on. “Now, while I'm here, I might as well browse. You don't mind, do you? I'll be quick about it. Just searching for a gift.”  
  
“Sure, go right ahead.” He went into Fluff-a-Friend mode. And needing-to-close-the-store-in-five-minutes mode. “What sort of gift are you looking for?”  
  
“Oh, it's not for any special _reason_ , just... for the sake of it. Because I can, you know?”  
  
For Smitty, a “just because” gift was when Archie would throw an extra espresso shot into his mocha, or when that Fredrick guy at the movies would “accidentally” give him a large popcorn for the price of a medium. Not dropping a couple hours' worth of wages on a stuffed toy that, albeit adorable, wasn't useful or sustaining in any way.  
  
So he went back to doing his job, with a smile.  
  
“Well, we put up our holiday collection today.” He walked to the display decorated with fluffy cotton mounds, resembling snow. Several bears were outfitted in sweaters, velvet dresses, and Santa costumes. They were posed around artificial trees, or splayed out on flimsy cardboard sleds. “This year, we're selling a reindeer, too.” He patted it gently upon its antlered head, thinking of Raine-deer. Who'd never been completed and likely still had fluff streaming out its fuzzy little ass.  
  
“Ah, well, let me take a look at these.”  
  
Unhurried, Landa perused the holiday choices. He muttered to himself as he took in each and every bear (and reindeer), and then paused at the final bear, a brown cub with curly fur and a headband sporting elf ears. It seemed he might have met his match, but then he turned to look at Smitty.  
  
“That isn't quite what I'm looking for. I need something... _fitting_. You understand, don't you, Smithson?”  
  
“I... guess, yeah.” He understood when _kids_ were indecisive about selecting a bear; usually, they wanted all of them. But with Landa, it was difficult to gauge just what he was after. “We do have some professional sports and career-centered ones over here...”  
  
“No, wait... what are those?” Landa gestured to the registers, and it took Smitty a second to realize he was referring to what was _behind_ the registers. The crabs.  
  
“Those...?” Smitty blinked, and did his best to explain in a positive manner. “They're... backstock from the summer. We're running a special promotion, with ever twenty-five dollar purchase, you can add a crab, pre-stuffed, for just five dollars.”  
  
“May I see one?”  
  
Smitty took the top crab down, and passed it over to Landa.  
  
“And, now, what if I wanted to purchase this crab on its own?”  
  
No one— _literally no one—_ had asked about purchasing the crab. Picking a different crab from the pile, Smitty scanned its tag.  
  
“It's twelve dollars.”  
  
“Oh, now, that's perfectly reasonable. Yes, I think I'll take it.”  
  
“ _Really_?” Smitty asked before he could stop himself. He hadn't even pitched the stupid thing, and Landa was practically clamoring for it. “Just, uh... none of the additional outfits we have are designed for it; usually people want something they can dress up.”  
  
“No, no, this is perfectly fine. I'm not concerned with its wardrobe, nor do I think will the recipient be.”  
  
Fair enough. But he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity staring him in the face... Upsell, upsell, upsell, that was the name of the game, and he had no qualms doing so when if it meant getting those sales from someone like _Landa_.  
  
“Did you need any _more_ crabs?” What was a group of crabs even called? “You could have a whole... squad of them!”  
  
That was definitely not right; he'd have to look it up.  
  
“One's enough,” Landa said. “Don't want to go overboard, of course. Now, do I still get one of those neat little boxes?”  
  
“Yeah, of course. And...” Smitty couldn't stop staring at the crab in Landa's hands, his gaze trailing up to the man himself, who was as perfectly pleased as any child that left with a new, cuddly bear. Could Hugo have... not _lied_ , but just misinterpreted things? “Well, you get to name it, make it your own. If you want. Here, I'll show you.”  
  
He led Landa over to the monitor were the birth certificates were printed.  
  
“See, you put in your name, and give it its own name.” Smitty pointed to the menu.  
  
“Fascinating! Oh, I like this; you know, I recently bought a phone with this whole set-up. The... screen that you touch, and all that.”  
  
“The touch-screen?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
So did _everybody_ Smitty knew.  
  
“Uh... right. Well, here, go ahead,” Smitty said.  
  
Landa did so, dutifully, entering his name and then forwarding to the screen for the plushie's name. “Ah, hm... what do _you_ think I should name it, Smithson?”  
  
“Oh, I couldn't possibly come up with a name more fitting than what you might come up with, Mr. Landa.” Smitty's first thought was of Donny's constant claiming of the crabs being “fugly”. He doubted that suggestion would be met with approval. “My advice is to look at your new friend and go with the first word or description that comes to mind.”  
  
“Well, the first word that comes to mind is...” Landa fiddled with the crab's fat little claws. “Pinchy. What do you think of that for a name? Mr. Pinchy?”  
  
“I like it,” Smitty said, truthfully. It was cute without being twee, unique without being off-the-wall. “Very crabby.”  
  
“ _Wunderbar_.”  
  
And there it was, made official as the certificate was printed and passed off to Landa. The first crab Smitty could recall selling since they'd been part of the clearance package: Mr. Pinchy.  
  
“I wouldn't happen to be able to pay with my phone, would I?" Landa asked while Smitty rang the sale in, after boxing Mr. Pinchy up. “Or use something like, what is it, that electronic payment? The coins, what are they called...? Bitcoins?”  
  
“I'm sorry, Mr. Landa, but our registers don't even have chip readers.” He swiped Landa's card and handed it back.  
  
“Oh, yes, those fancy gadgets—why, we just had them installed, ourselves, a few months ago. Well, no matter, I'm sure Fluff-a-Friend will catch up on the latest technological advances soon enough.”  
  
“Right,” Smitty agreed, despite having no clue (and no say) in regards to the registers being updated. “Receipt with you or in the box?”  
  
“I won't be needing it; this won't be getting returned.” Landa waved him off and took the box. “Now, I'm just glad we cleared the air. Remember, you're always welcome to stop by at Landstrom's, if you'd like. As I said, the situation with Dieter's been resolved. You needn't concern yourself with him; I hardly do, myself!”  
  
The mental image of the photo directory in the security office, and its insinuations, sprang forth once again. Smitty willed it away.  
  
“Right. I'll keep that in mind.” He would never step foot in Landstrom's if he could help it, especially now with Hugo gone. In what was not just his customer service voice, but his _the-customer-is-always-right_ voice, Smitty heard himself say, “It was nice to finally meet you, Mr. Landa,”   
  
Landa stared at Smitty for a long moment, as if Smitty had said something truly perplexing. And then, his smile hitched back up, no longer reaching his eyes.  
  
“It was a pleasure meeting you too, Smithson Utivich.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a _ton_ of bits inspired by my own real-life experience in retail hell. I mean, the fic as a whole draws on That, but this chapter particularly... oof, relivin' that trauma baayyy-beee.
> 
> And yes, Mr. Pinchy is a Simpsons reference but also I felt a very fitting name for the crab bb.
> 
> Also, I'm going to be putting this fic on hiatus until **April 10th**. I have a couple other projects that have like, actual deadlines and so I'm going to give them precedent and at the same time do a bit of catch-up with the upcoming chapters. :)
> 
> I'm very grateful for the support so far! As always, kudos and comments are appreciated <3 See ya back at the Fenech Mall in two months.

**Author's Note:**

> The 20 chapters is just a place holder for now, but it will be around that figure. Word count, I have no damn clue, other than over 50k, hahhhh.
> 
>  **CakeFlavoredFinch** (my co-pilot for this AU) and I are working on constructing a blog for this fic. Check back here soon for a link!


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